


Something About You

by curiousair



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dialogue Heavy, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lots of Crying, M/M, MMA, Mental Illness, Minor Violence, Mixed Martial Arts, References to Depression, References to anxiety, Slow Burn, Zayn is sort of in this too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-01-15 13:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 69,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18500017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiousair/pseuds/curiousair
Summary: (An MMA story that’s not really about fighting and not really about love either)





	1. Round One

**Author's Note:**

> wow it's been a minute since I've posted anything. I've been writing this for years and here it is lmao
> 
> WARNING: this story has extremely triggering content. mentions of alcohol abuse, drunk driving, anxiety, discussion about suicide, description of suicidal ideations, and behaviors stemming from major depression. also talks of weight and weight loss in terms of “cutting weight” for MMA. please tread lightly when reading.
> 
> Also, I really love MMA and tried to write this so it made sense to the general public- enjoy.

There’s something cathartic and absolutely fucking terrible about overworking your body. He’s tense and worn out, barely able to lift his arms over his head. His leaden feet drag across the floor and his scratched and bruised knuckles sting as he takes off his gloves. 

Harry all but drops himself into the ice bath, gasping at the sharp bite of the water and wincing when his sore muscles struggle to relax in the cramped metal tub. Shivering, he shuts his eyes and takes deep breaths, willing the tension to fade away quickly. 

Silence surrounds him. Nothing but the sounds of the gently sloshing ice and water, and his slow, steady breathing fill the space. The room is small, just enough for three tubs, with unforgiving tile floors and thick walls that keep out any and all noise. The noise of the the gym is closed off behind the door- the leather gloves rhythmically working heavy bags, the constant whir of treadmills and ellipticals, grunts and cries from his training partners, and the coaches’ stern voices rising above everyone else. It used to be music to his ears, and he supposes it still is. Now it just grates at his ears and makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Day in and day out, the same song over and over. If he had a choice, he would change it. But no matter how hard it gets, he can never quit. This is the only option he has. 

Dunking his head under the water, Harry revels in the only few moments of pure, uninterrupted peace he gets during training. He holds his breath until his chest burns, then he comes up sputtering, pushing his hair out of his face. The room comes into focus again, and Harry startles when he realizes he’s no longer alone.

“Oh.”

Niall gives Harry a polite smile, rubbing a towel against his damp brown hair. “Hello,” he says, then pulls off his shirt, and drops himself into the bath next to Harry’s with a sort of reckless abandon. Wincing, he pulls a strained face and hisses.  “Ah, holy  _ shit _ , that’s cold. I’ll never get used to it.”

“Yeah,” Harry says stupidly. There’s space between them, but not much. Harry eyes him warily, deciding whether or not he should get up and leave. No offense to Niall, but Harry would very much like to be alone.

“I heard something,” Niall continues, settling a little into his tub. “I think it was like, um, a regular cold bath is just as effective as what we’re doing here. Safer too.”

“Right,” Harry pauses for a second and chews his lip, contemplating the situation before going on. “Well, what we do isn’t really the safest anyway, so what’s an added risk of hypothermia?” he says dryly. He’s still shivering, his teeth chattering in his skull.

Niall looks at Harry fully now, laughter in his baby blue eyes. “That is so funny.” He has a greenish-purple bruise under his left eye, spreading up to the bridge of his nose, likely from his fight earlier in the month. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a superficial injury. Especially if it didn’t even knock you down, and then you went on to submit your opponent with an effortless triangle armbar, with just 30 seconds left in the first round. Harry was there to watch that fight, sitting right in the front row when Niall climbed up over the cage in victory and jumped into his coach’s arms, excited and giddy. 

Harry can’t help but narrow his eyes at him a little, suspicious by default. “Sure.”

“Harry, right?” Niall reaches over the edge of the tub and presents Harry his hand. “I’m Niall.”

Harry heard of Niall Horan before he even saw him in person. A young wrestler and submission artist that seemed to come out of nowhere. He shook up the featherweight division when he signed on two years ago, and people haven’t stopped talking about him since. The praise is warranted, especially because he’s on an eight fight win streak, and already has a title shot lined up in a few months. At 25, he’s a legend in the making. Harry swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth as he reaches over to shake Niall’s hand. His muscles scream at him with every small movement, and Niall chuckles a little at Harry’s state. Despite fighting it, it still sends a warm feeling down Harry’s spine. 

“Yeah. Nice to meet you.”

They’ve met before, though not officially. Harry first saw him when he started training here, and his coach, Kevin, told him that Niall would be a champion someday. He’s seen him around the gym in passing, always rolling with people and out-maneuvering them at every turn, out-grappling, and out-wrestling everyone that faces him. What’s most compelling, Harry decides, is the way Niall is looking at him right now.

Niall’s soft smile, bright eyes, and firm handshake sort of- have an affect on him, so to speak. Most people don’t look him in the eye anymore, but Niall does. With an earnest, honest look on his face like he’s a well worn and open book waiting to be rifled through, dogeared, and taken care of with a gentle hand.

Harry blinks, forcing his gaze away from Niall’s face. It’s the simple act of friendliness that has him a little shaken, that’s all. He’s out of his element and out of practice. Granted, Harry hasn’t gone out of his way to make new friends here. But, it’s the standoffish attitude of everyone else that feeds into Harry’s insecurities, makes him question every word out of his mouth, and subsequently makes it easier for him to seem like the asshole that doesn’t care to talk to anyone. On the other hand, he understands why people are standoffish. He wouldn’t want to be friends with someone like himself either. But, Niall is talking to him, leaning forward a bit to hear Harry over his own chattering teeth.

“You weren’t here a few months ago, were you?” Niall says, “You were at another gym?” 

“I was up near San Jose,” Harry clarifies. 

“Right, thought I heard that.” Niall smiles and curls himself up so his shoulders dip under the water. He closes his eyes and shudders, before coming back up and resting his head against the wall. “Well, welcome. Hope you’re liking it so far.” 

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles. His eyes find the tattoo on Niall's bicep- it’s a realistic joshua tree that extends up onto his shoulder, done in black and grey. Further down, on his forearm, there’s a hypnotizing mandala tattoo with perfectly symmetrical lines and detailed dot-work. Harry stares for a minute, until his gaze catches the tattoo on Niall’s other forearm. From where he’s sitting, he can only make out geometric shapes and a burst of watercolor. There’s a part of Harry that pulls him forward, leaning over the tub to get a better look- he stops himself in the middle of the movement, dropping back into the tub.

If Niall realizes that Harry is gawking, he apparently doesn’t mind. His eyes are still closed, a sweet smile on his lips. Harry indulges for another minute, then forces himself to look away. He pulls himself out of the tub, pulls the plug to drain it, and wordlessly starts for the door. 

“Nice to finally meet you,” Niall calls from his tub. Harry looks over his shoulder, not enough time to train his face into something less surprised. Those honest baby blue eyes latch onto him, sending another wave of warmth over his bones. “Have a good rest of your day.”

Harry’s cheek grow hot as he mutters his reply. “You too.” He all but rushes out of the room, nearly running into someone on the way out. “Sorry.”

“Whoa, who’re you running from,” the guy says. It’s Louis or Lewis, or something- Harry doesn’t remember. Harry doesn’t even get to think about a response before the guy starts laughing. “Don’t get all aggro, man. Was just joking.” He slaps Harry hard on the back as he passes. 

Harry grits his teeth, biting back the insult on the tip of his tongue.

-

The common misconception about Harry is that he has a “bad attitude.” The media paints him with broad undefined strokes, ignoring any chance to get to know who he really is. He’s a kid with a “past,” a former problem child with bloody knuckles and a permanently furrowed brow, all  wrapped up in an enigma. He’s not an angel. He’s sarcastic and blunt, he rolls his eyes at stupid questions, and thinks press conferences are redundant and full of instigating journalists. And yeah he  _ might  _ spit at someone who says the wrong thing to him. He's slightly rough around the edges, sure, but he's not the awful, depraved person some people think he is. As much as people want to believe it, he’s not the person to fly off the handle for no reason, to scream and insult people just to feed his ego. 

Sometimes, he wishes he was that person- maybe he would be better at ignoring criticism. He could just say fuck it and not care about anything anyone says. If he was a bad person, maybe he wouldn't be so insecure, sensitive, and easily triggered. That would be the life. Instead, he’s stuck with excess sensitivities and an unfortunate alcohol habit. 

As much as Harry hates to admit it, he can barely hold it together some days. Everything he hides from the public- all the hopelessness and self doubt that sits inside him every day, grows with no signs of stopping. Sometimes, he feels wound too tight, strangled by his intrusive thoughts. Fueled by his insecurities, everything manifests into anger. That’s when he explodes, lashing out in a fit of destructiveness. Then there are times when he’s suffocated, weighed down and so heavy that he’ll just cry and cry until there’s nothing left for him to feel.

It gets dark sometimes, darker than he can handle. So dark that all he can do is get up and train until he can't think about anything other than slicing his fists through the air to meet flesh and bone, dragging his bare skin across the rough canvas, and feeling the hot labored breath of his opponent in his ear. Pushing and pushing until his body aches and he falls into bed, numb. He's empty then, having left everything on the mat. Then he’s stuck in his bed and lying to himself. Telling himself that he wastes 12 hours curled up in his sheets because he works hard and deserves the rest, burying his reality in beer and gin. Burying the fact that he knows, deep down he lacks the motivation to do anything but train and fight. 

Since last year, it’s the worst it’s ever been. But, he can’t blame anyone for that except for himself. All he can do is try to get back to where he was, even if it’s futile.

There’s pride in trying, at least. 

Harry drags himself out of bed, shuffling to the bathroom with his eyes half shut. He splashes some water on his face and brushes his teeth. His face looks puffy, eyes tired and swollen from the 3 a.m. crying binge he had the night before. He flattens down his hair in the back where it tends to stick up and mutters to himself, “get a fucking haircut, why don’t you.” 

His stomach growls as he approaches his kitchen, almost on cue. He opens the refrigerator, utterly disappointed as always. It’s three weeks out from his next fight, and he figures it’s never too early to start the weight cut. Getting down to 155 takes a lot more effort than a week of starving himself and maybe running a few extra miles. So, it’s eggs, bland chicken, and steamed asparagus for the next 21 days. God bless the no carb, no salt, no joy diet.

Harry sits at the bar top in his tiny kitchen, poking around at his joyless meal. The entire apartment is quiet, feeling lifeless and dull compared to his place in San Jose. There, he had a bar custom built after he got his first ‘fight of the night’ bonus. He even remodeled the guest room and bought a new entertainment system, before realizing that none of his so-called friends wanted to come over, especially after everything went to shit. He enjoyed the space alone, getting blackout drunk on a daily basis, binge watching Friends, and passing out in the guest room because the sheets were cleaner. He can almost convince himself that the move to Mojave was a good thing, since he lost sponsorships and affording a nice apartment became out of the question. 

His laptop screen lights up and rings next to him, signaling an incoming Skype call. Harry had almost forgotten. His manager, Craig, scheduled a spot on an internet MMA show, in attempt to get Harry’s reputation ‘back on track.’

_ “Be charming,”  _ Craig told him on the phone last night.

Harry rolls his eyes and answers the call, mustering up his friendliest smile. It isn’t until he sees himself in the corner of the screen that he realizes he isn’t exactly presentable enough for a live show. 

Leslie King, who is one of the least annoying MMA journalists, doesn’t seem to notice or mind. He greets Harry with a huge grin and wave. “Hello! The one and only Harry Styles. How are you on this lovely Saturday morning?” 

“Hungry,” Harry answers, showing his food to the camera. “No grown man should be forced to live off of this alone. It’s torture.” 

“The things we do for the weight cut, right?” Leslie laughs and Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes again. “How much you have to go?”

Harry thinks, pausing to chew his food. “Not too sure. I think I need to lose like 10 percent of my body weight so, like 15 to 20 pounds.” 

Leslie’s eyes light up at this, as if he knows something Harry doesn’t. “Since we’re on the subject of cutting weight, I heard some rumors that you’re possibly moving up in weight.” 

“Who said that?” Harry asks, through his food. He eyes himself on the screen, forcing himself to unfurrow his brows.  _ Charming _ , he thinks. “I never said that.” 

Leslie pushes the glasses up on his nose. “I heard it from a little birdy.” 

“Well... the little birdy who told you is a fucking liar,” Harry resigns, with a shrug. “Lightweight is my home. Besides, do you really think  _ I  _ would make it out alive at 170? Some of those guys walk around at 200 plus. I’ll pass.” 

“Ah, too big for lightweight and too small for welterweight.” Leslie is laughing, looking through some papers on his desk. “The struggle is real.”

Harry has no clue if he’s being charming, but he feels confident talking about MMA, even if that means talking about himself. “Yeah, I mean if they put a weight class in between- which they fucking  _ should _ , by the way- I’m there. For now I’m semi-comfortable at 155.” 

“No, definitely stay at lightweight. You’re a beast at 155, honestly. I mean that in the best way possible.” Leslie takes a moment to look over some of his notes. “All personal opinions aside, I have some questions to ask you. You’re coming off of a decision loss against Smith this past April. I know it was your first fight back after taking nearly a year off, but do you feel that you had a bit of ring rust? Or was he just that tough of an opponent?”

“A little of both,” Harry says, not afraid to admit it. If he gets too bitter about why he lost, instead of wondering how he can get better, he might never win a fight again. Besides, he’s lucky the company even lifted his suspension. He’s lucky he had the will to come back and try again. “I felt like I was starting over, like it was my debut all over again. So, that plus being matched with a guy who can probably crack a watermelon with his bare hands… it made for a tough fight, basically.”

“Fair enough answer,” Leslie responds. “Your next fight is in June, just a few weeks away. How do you plan to make upcoming fight against Derrick different?” 

“I’m not gonna let the judges decide who wins,” Harry says easily. Leslie laughs, but Harry is dead serious. “I swear the New York athletic commision has the most incompetent judges to ever exist.”

“Ah, be nice. We're live and they might be watching this right now.” 

Harry smiles, a bit more genuine now. “That  _ is  _ me being nice.”

“So, you’re planning on finishing him in the first round then?” he asks. 

“That’s always my plan.” 

“Okay, okay,” Leslie says, his eyes widening again. “I have requests to talk about something fans call ‘the head kick heard round the world.’ You famously knocked Frances Hagen out in 45 seconds, with a freaking  _ spinning heel kick _ .” 

People like to talk about it, and it’s a bittersweet feeling. There was a time when Harry was somewhat of a famous fighter. He debuted at 20, immediately beginning his five fight win streak. Fighting consistently for years meant he won some and lost some. His peak was his title fight at 23. After he lost that due to a shitty judges’ decision, he vowed to come back stronger. It’s too bad he couldn’t control his temper. He spent his 24th birthday at court mandated community service, picking up trash near a freeway overpass. Now, he’s sort of infamous.

“It was a fluke,” Harry jokes. He shoves the bad memories down deep inside, where they belong, and puts a smile on his face. “I actually have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Oh c’mon. You’re a legend, Styles. No need to be humble.”

“Please don’t-,” Harry waves him off. He hates the ‘legend’ talk, mostly because he’ll never live up to those early moments again. “Seriously though, I did kinda throw the kick out there without thinking it was gonna knock him out. I practiced that kick a million times, and never thought I could land it that accurately. Head kicks are funny in that way.” 

Leslie nods. “Will we be seeing more head kicks in your next fight?”

Harry squints at him. “You don’t expect me to sit here and tell the world, including my opponent, a detailed gameplan do you?”

“Alright, alright fine. Let’s move on,” he says, him cheeks reddening. “Your new training partner, Niall Horan, has been on one hell of a streak and is set to face Zayn Malik for the title in July. How do you feel about training with someone who people are calling the next big thing?”

“Indifferent?” Harry answers, shrugging. A pang of jealousy hits him in the chest; he buries that down too. “He’s a nice guy and he seems to work hard. That’s all I can really say about him.” 

Leslie doesn’t seemed pleased with Harry’s answer. His whole job is to be an instigator, so they can chop and screw his words and use the sound bites for fight promos. The next thing Harry knows, there’ll be rumors of him talking shit about other fighters. “Based on your observations, how do you think he’ll do against Malik?”

“That’s hard to tell. Anything can happen. I don’t put it past either of them to finish the fight in the first round,” Harry says. He’s seen some clips of Zayn’s past fights. He’s intense, for sure, but Harry doesn’t know much about him beyond that. “I know Zayn has a killer left hand and an unconventional stance, so that might be a challenge. But, anything can happen. Who’s to say that Niall doesn’t just wrestle him to the ground and fuck him up? We’re just talking hypotheses here though, and those don’t really hold any weight do they?”

“True. Can’t say it’s not fun though, can you?” Leslie replies. “How do you feel about people who think that it’s too soon for Niall’s title shot?”

“Um. Well, people said the same about me. I don’t think it matters,” Harry answers, shifting uncomfortably in his seat now This is the third question in a row about Niall, and nothing against the guy but Harry would rather talk about his own career. That’s what this interview was scheduled for, after all. This time, Harry doesn’t try and bite his tongue. “Now, I have a question for  _ you _ . Is this interview about me or is it about Niall?”

“Oh,” Leslie’s face falls. “I-,”

Harry continues on, not letting him speak. Not as a ‘fuck you’ but more as a ‘give me a second.’ He doesn’t fuck around with MMA journalists. They tend to twist his words, to try and make him out as the bad guy again and again, so he tries to speak as clearly and calmly as possible. “I’m not gonna speak on anyone else’s fight career. I have nothing but respect for the guy. But, I’m sure if you wanted to call him up and ask  _ him  _ these questions, he would be more than happy to oblige.”

Leslie looks absolutely mortified, but he goes on. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend-,”

Harry puts a hand up. “Not offended. Just would like to stay on topic, you know?” He adds another joke in, in efforts to squash the tension. “The topic being me, of course.” His phone starts to vibrate incessantly on the bar top. There's probably a dozen unanswered texts- some from Craig, who is definitely scolding him about not being charming, some from Kevin, who probably just wants a shoutout, and the others from his mom, who texts him every time she sees anything about him online.

He and Leslie talk for another half hour, keeping things light and easy. They don’t talk about what happened last year, much to Harry’s delight. They talk about possible title shots in the future, which Harry always takes with a grain of salt. If there’s a possibility, he doesn’t want to jinx it by talking about it too much. 

Later in the day, during his drive to the gym, he dwells on the idea of being lightweight champion. He allows himself a minute to revel in the imaginary success, in the idea that he could be  _ someone _ again. His hand being raised in victory, the heavy belt over his shoulder, and everyone in the crowd screaming his name…

It’s five in the evening and it’s still out as hell outside, the steering wheel burning Harry’s fingers. He goes to flip on the AC before remembering that he never got it fixed after last summer. “Ah, shit,” he mutters to himself, letting his windows down instead. The air is dry and hot, doing literally nothing to help.

As Harry climbs out of the car, he makes a mental note to move out of the fucking desert as soon as possible. Walking into the crisp air conditioned space, Harry’s phone vibrates in his hand. There’s a text from Craig waiting for him- just a link to an MMA website, no commentary. Harry clicks it, already knowing it can’t be good. 

_ ‘Harry Styles SLAMS journalist over questions about Niall Horan.’ _

Harry closes the article without reading it, knowing it’s just clickbait and internet troll fodder. But in the back of his mind, the worst, most self-deprecating part of himself wants to read it. He’ll read it and get angry at himself for being misinterpreted, even though he knows it’s not his fault. He’ll scold himself and put himself down, telling himself that he deserves all the shit he’s gonna get for it. 

The gym is nearly empty, leaving most areas open for Harry to choose. He doesn’t have a specific plan of action for the night, so he gravitates towards the heavy bags and drops his bag down on the floor. Technically, it’s his day off. He should be at home, per Kevin’s request, taking his rest day seriously. The thought of that, being alone in his apartment with nothing to do and no one to talk to, sort of makes him wanna slit his wrists. Being here is better, even though his body will hate him for it.

Harry puts his headphones in and starts wrapping his hands, methodically placing the thin cloth edge to edge around his palm, wrist, and knuckles. This part always feels good to him, therapeutic almost- the anticipation of putting the gloves on, knowing how much more power he has in his hands with the added weight. Knowing that he has control, even if it’s over something so small.

He startles a bit, embarrassingly so, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Pulling out one earbud, he turns to see Niall standing in front of him. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey.” Niall is sweating profusely, his muscle tee drenched with it. His gloves are still on, and he’s stretching an arm across his chest. “Heard you were talking shit.”

Harry frowns. “Excuse me?” It's a knee-jerk reaction, the response he has to anyone that has the audacity to step up to him. Then, seconds later it dawns on him. The tension in his shoulders fades away and he smirks. “Very funny. I’m guessing you saw that sad excuse for journalism too?”

“Yeah,” Niall chuckles. “There are so many more important things to write about. Instead they write about us. And blatant lies, for that matter. It's bullshit.”

Harry starts wrapping his right hand, keeping his eyes trained on his work. “So, did you watch the interview this morning?” he asks. Out of sheer curiosity, of course, nothing more. 

“Nah, couldn't catch it,” Niall responds. “But I'm smart enough to know you weren't actually saying anything bad about me.”

Harry looks up from his hands to catch Niall's gaze. He wonders if anyone has told Niall how jarring his level of eye contact is. He looks different up close like this. Less baby-faced and more...mature and distinguished. Wrinkles by his eyes, a slightly crooked nose that has definitely been broken before, and old scar tissue on his cheek from a cut that's been reopened more than once. His ears are rough, cauliflowered but not as bad as other wrestlers he's seen and there’s stubble on his face, the beginning of a beard, making him look his age. “Don't know you well enough to say anything bad about you.”

Niall gives him a  _ look _ . A sort of amused look that makes his eyes light up. He opens his mouth to say something but seems to abandon it before it comes out. “So,” he says, walking over to a heavy bag. He throws a lazy jab and follows it with a left straight. “I heard something about you.” 

Harry raises an eyebrow, slipping his left glove on. “Yeah? What’d you hear?” He holds his breath, waiting to another rumor. Maybe this time it’ll be somewhat similar to the truth.

“That you’re the best striker at lightweight.” 

“Well…,” Harry shrugs. It’s not like he hasn’t heard it before. He’s confident in his abilities, if nothing else. “I won’t disagree.” 

Niall wraps his arms around the heavy bag, leaning into it. “I remember seeing you literally kick the snot out of Hagen a few years back.” 

“That’s a way to put it,” Harry replies, reaching into the bag at his feet. He takes out his headband and slips it on, pushing his hair back.

“The head kick heard round the world,” Niall adds. “Are you a fan of that being your claim to fame?

“I’m mostly neutral about it?” Harry answers. After seeing the way Niall’s eyebrows raise, he back peddles a little. “Not that I’m not grateful for my fans or anything. I just wish- I don’t know… I wish people recognized all the other work I put in too.”

“How do you know they don’t?” Niall asks. Harry looks at him, searching his face. It’s a genuine question- he has that same open, honest look in his eyes as he continues. “You are the best striker at lightweight, aren’t you? It’s a only a matter of time before you do something else amazing that’ll have people talking for a while.”

Harry waves off the compliment, ignoring the way his face heats up. “I try not to get my hopes up.”

“If you never get your hopes up, then what’s this all for?”

“Well,” Harry pauses, truly thinking about the question. Niall waits patiently, surely knowing that Harry has no answer. “You got me there.”

“So,” Niall shoves the heavy bag with his shoulder. “What do you say you give me a few tips?” 

“Tips?” Harry takes his shin guards out of his bag. “Like, striking or…?”

“Of course. Hold on,” Niall jogs over to the cage and comes back with practice pads. “We’re training partners, aren’t we?” 

Niall fought one of Harry’s old training partners a while back. Harry remembers hearing about Niall being a tough fighter but needing work when it came to striking. No one has ever asked Harry for help with anything, not even when he was at the top of his game. But here’s Niall, with his sweet smile, asking him.

“Okay fine,” Harry decides. “Show me something then.”

“You got it.” Niall drops the pads and gives the heavy bag a few strikes- basic boxing combos and a few elbow strikes. He’s fast, sharp, and quick on his feet, which Harry already knew. He stops after about 30 seconds, turning to look at Harry expectantly. 

“You’re standing too upright,” Harry tells him. “And your right hand is weak.”

“Okay?”

Harry picks up the pads and holds them out, not one to beat around the bush. Plus, if he does this, he might be able to focus on something other than Niall’s eyes. “Let’s work.”

They work on Niall’s offense first, with Harry explaining slowly and as concise as he can. Niall nods, like he gets it, then does the same exact thing Harry told him not to. After a few times, it comes to Harry having to physically correct Niall's stance, literally bopping him on the jaw with the pad to remind him to tuck his chin, and clapping the pads against his elbows every time he drops his hands. Once Niall seems to get it, Harry starts throwing put sporadic strikes for Niall to slip or block. It's not perfect but there's power behind Niall's punches, sometimes sending Harry back a few steps. If anything, he could easily overwhelm his opponent against the cage.

They're mostly quiet as they go at it, running the same drills over and over. Before Harry knows it, an hour has passed and a “few tips” has turned into a full training session. 

By seven, Harry isn't tired, but he  _ is _ confused. There's no way Niall is still this basic in his striking abilities. He's supposedly the next best thing, yet there's so many holes in his stand up game that it's a miracle he hasn't been knocked out yet. 

“Does your team not help you with this, or…?” he asks, finally dropping the pads. 

“Oh yeah, we’ve been working it. Just thought I’d ask the best though.” It’s the third time Niall has called Harry ‘the best’ in the past hour. Frankly, he can stand to hear it a few more times from Niall’s lips.

Niall drops himself onto a bench and pulls off his gloves with his teeth. His dark brown hair drips sweat onto his lap. “I know you probably think I suck.” 

“You don't suck, it's just…” Harry stops, realizing there's no polite way to end the sentence. At the same time, Niall tugs his shirt over his head, tousling his hair in the process. Harry doesn't understand how someone who is disgustingly sweaty and exhausted can look so good. He watches as Niall uses the shirt to dry his hair and chest. Objectively, it's gross. But at this point, Harry is too captivated to care. 

“I need work,” Niall completes the sentence for him, seeming unbothered by it. “Good thing you're here to help.” 

Harry is suspicious, but can’t voice those suspicions without seeming like a complete narcissist. There are guys they train with that have been two time champions, and have even held multiple titles at once. There’s a reason Niall is asking him for help and no one else. That reason eludes him, but it’s present and making him feel some sort of way. Like, stupid butterflies in his stomach. “Just know that if this was a real fight, you'd be TKO'd like 45 minutes ago.” 

“Real nice. I've only been training for five hours today. Cut me some slack, why don't you?” 

“Why would I do that?” Harry jibes. “You wanna be featherweight champ don't you?” 

Niall gives him that  _ look _ again. Harry chews his lip. 

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Niall asks. 

The butterflies in Harry’s stomach start to make their way up into Harry chest as he speaks. “To be honest, I'm probably gonna be here until 9 and then I'll go home and drink a six pack of beer. Excuse me-  _ light  _ beer. Gotta keep the weight down, of course.” Harry is only half joking. But Niall laughs, so loud Harry can feel it in his chest. 

“Okay. Instead of that, why don't you come out with us?” 

“Who is ‘us?’” 

“Me, Liam, and Louis,” Niall says. “Liam is finally cleared to fight again, so we figured we'd go out and celebrate with a couple drinks.”

It couldn’t hurt. But, it requires Harry to pretend not to be a sad sack for a night. It also requires him to flex his dull-as-fuck social skills, which means less self-deprecating jokes and more  _ charm. _ “Okay. I’ll come by, for sure,” Harry says, hopefully not sounding too eager or too aloof.

“Great.” There's a glint of excitement in Niall's eye as he gets up. He jogs back over to the rolling mats and comes back with his phone in hand. “We should probably exchange numbers so I can text you the directions.”

Harry digs through his bag for his phone, and they switch, making a new contact for each other. Niall's background is a picture of him and a woman he assumes is Niall's mom. It makes Harry smile, and makes him miss his mom a little more than usual.

“Cool,” Niall says, pushing his hair away from his forehead. “Thanks for working with me, by the way. I'll buy you a drink, as a token of my appreciation. See you tomorrow around 10?”

“Sounds good.”

Niall pats Harry on the back and Harry swears his hand lingers for a second.

-

The bar is on narrow dirt road, tucked away behind an auto shop, and sandwiched in between an abandoned sex shop and a burger restaurant. It's a real hole in the wall, Harry's favorite kind of bar. The alcohol is never top shelf but it's always cheap.

Harry checks his hair in the rearview mirror before he leaves the car, cursing at the way it curls around his ears. “Jesus, get a fucking haircut,” he mutters to himself. Maybe if he says it enough, he’ll actually do it. 

It's a popular spot it seems, from the way the crowd looks inside. People are grouped around the two billiards tables, congregated at the back of the bar near the dart boards, and swarming the bartenders for drinks. There's country music playing from a jukebox somewhere and Harry doesn't spot Niall right away so he squeezes his way through to the bar. As he's about to order,  Niall appears at his side. He’s dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that’s pushed up to his elbows. Harry can’t help but look at Niall’s tattoos again, the dark ink standing out from his skin.

“Hey, you made it!” Niall smiles wide and leans in so Harry can hear him. “We're sitting over there. We can order together if you want? Makes it easier.”

“Sure.” Harry follows him to the table and they sit, greeting Liam and Louis. They fall silent right away, Liam twiddling his thumbs and Louis looking at his phone in a way that people do when they’re not really doing anything. Harry would kill to have a drink in his hand right now. 

“So,” Liam starts first. “What brings Harry Styles to this janky little military town?”

“New opportunities,” Harry answers easily. He talked about this with Craig. It’s what he’s supposed to say when people ask about it, even if everyone already knows the truth.

“New opportunities,” Liam repeats, and takes a swig of his beer. Suddenly, the conversation feels like an interrogation. 

“Liam-,” Niall starts, but Louis cuts him off.

“New opportunities,” he repeats, looking up from his phone. “You sure it has nothing to do with beating the shit out of someone and basically getting banished from San Jose?”

Harry’s nails dig into the dirty wood table, and tension starts to form in his neck. Niall groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Lou, shut the fuck up.”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t say that,” Liam adds, with a chuckle. “Don’t want him to jump over the table at you.”

It’s hard for Harry to get a hold on how he’s feeling in this moment. His jaw clenches and his entire face gets hot. Tears brim his eyes and he resents the fact that he always cries when he’s angry. The urge to run overtakes him; he pushes up from the table and walks away without a word. “Hey, it’s just a joke!” Louis calls after him. Harry keeps moving, stomping out onto the dirt parking lot, shaking with anger by the time he reaches his car. He figures he has about thirty seconds before he fucking explodes, and he would much rather it be contained in his car than outside for other people to see. 

“Harry, wait,-”

“What?!” Harry spins and immediately deflates when he sees Niall’s face. All the anger leaves him and he’s standing there, more embarrassed than anything. 

“I’m sorry about them,” Niall says, daring to step closer. “They have no social skills. You should stay.” 

“So they can shit on me some more?” Harry clenches his keys in his hand, enjoying the way the sharp edges bite at his skin. “Why would I want to sit through that?”

“Because I want you to stay,” Niall says, easy as anything. “Besides, they’re totally wrong about you anyway.” 

And it’s not that Harry  _ can’t _ say no to that smile, it’s that he  _ won’t.  _

“Fine,” Harry relents. “But, if I go in, you have to let me talk shit to your friends.”

Niall laughs. “Be my guest.” 

Harry follows him back in, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. Thankfully, Liam and Louis are at a billiards table when they return to their seats. Niall takes the seat right next to Harry, though there are two others open. Harry tries not to think about it as the server comes by to take their drink orders. 

The lighting in the bar is dim and yellowish, casting a warm glow on Niall’s skin. In this light, and up this close, there's a level of softness Harry hadn't seen before. The peachy freckles across his nose and reddened cheeks, the pink flush to his lips, and the dark specks of blue in his eyes. Stunning, Harry thinks. Everything about him is stunning. Harry could never and will never look this effortlessly perfect. 

When the drinks arrive, Harry takes his two shots of whiskey back to back and chases them with beer. It’s so much of a habit, so part of his routine that he doesn’t even think twice about it.

The look on Niall’s face tells Harry all he needs to know. Eyebrows raised, he asks, “Looking to get shit faced or what?” 

Harry puts the glass down, licking the beer’s foam from his lip. “Um. Well not any more shit faced than I normally get.” 

Niall takes a decidedly smaller sip of his beer. “So you like to drink?” 

At this point it's past liking it, but there's no way to explain that without sounding a little pathetic. People who  _ like _ to drink are usually fun drunks, people who laugh and maybe tell jokes a little too loud. Fun drunks don't fall out of chairs, blackout in public, or physically assault people. Harry is not a fun drunk.

He sips his beer and tells himself that this'll be his last drink for the night. “A little bit, yeah.” 

Niall grins and holds up his glass. “Cheers then.” 

Harry raises his glass too, and they clink them together. There’s a comfortable lull in the conversation after that, both of them turning their attention to the TV behind the bar. It’s playing an old MMA card, one that happened before Harry even realized who he wanted to be or what he wanted to do with his life.

“So.” Niall turns away from the TV during a commercial break, twisting in his seat to face Harry. “How’d you get into fighting?” 

“Well the abridged version is I started in boxing, then sort of fell in love with kickboxing. Then came muay thai, and when I found jiu jitsu I was like ‘well shit, I might as well try MMA,’” Harry explains. “And it just worked out, I guess. What about you?” 

“I wrestled all throughout high school,” Niall says. 

“Not surprising,” Harry responds.

Niall squints his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I mean that it’s obvious,” Harry says, plainly. “You’re good at it, and that doesn’t just happen from a few years of training. You’re sort of… a natural, and all that.” He averts his eyes, not really able to deal with Niall’s blinding smile. 

“Well, thanks,” Niall is sincere, his voice hushed. “It was just an extracurricular thing at first, then I started to really like it. After high school, I started in jiu jitsu and MMA and the rest is history.” 

“Now, you’re like the ‘next big thing.’” Harry looks up again, meeting Niall’s gaze.

“Ugh.” Niall shakes his head and scrunches his nose. “That’s a terrifying thought.”

“Why?” 

“I’m not equipped to be a ‘famous’ fighter. I basically shit myself every time I have to be on camera,” Niall sighs and glances at the TV. On the screen, a fighter has top control and is raining punches down onto his opponent. “People talk about me like I’m some prodigy. I read something the other day that was like ‘Niall Horan is barely 25 and has a black belt in jiu jitsu.’ Would be nice if that was true-,” 

“Wait,” Harry stops him, raising his hand, “you don’t have black belt?”

“Don’t tell me you fell for that too?” Niall says. He’s tickled by the assumption, chuckling as he speaks. “Seriously?”

“No, I didn’t-,” Harry starts over, backtracking. “I mean, like I said before, you’re a natural. It’s like you’ve been doing it forever.” 

“I’m not even a brown belt,” Niall explains. “I got my purple belt last year. Took me five, but I’m proud goddammit.” 

“Shit, if you keep it up you might have your brown belt by the end of this year.” Surprisingly, Harry doesn’t feel his usual pang of envy at the idea that someone his age is doing better than him. If anyone deserves the success, it’s someone as hardworking and genuine as Niall. 

“That’s the plan,” Niall says, matter-of-fact. “What about you? Are you, like, actively trying to rank or do you have other plans?” 

“I’m not really concerned with BJJ ranking,” Harry admits. “Just not that kind of fighter, I guess. I’m fine with being that guy that just kicks really fucking hard.” 

Niall chortles, then says, “I heard that you had a really good win streak when you debuted.” 

“I did, yeah. Glory days, those were.” Harry jokes about it, so it hurts less.

“Did you ever get used to the media stuff?” Niall asks. “Like all the cameras in your face during fight week?” 

“I don’t know…,” Harry thinks. “I felt like I never got to experience it. My streak and my title shot came and went so fast and suddenly no one gave a shit about me anymore.” 

Niall waves his hand at Harry, brushing off the comment. “Ah, don’t say that. People love you.” 

Harry scoffs. “Yeah? Who?” 

Niall’s face gets red, he opens his mouth to say something but takes a sip of his beer instead. “A lot of people.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, you don't seem like the kind of person who's nervous about anything.” 

“I'm not, usually. Nerves are different than…,” Niall trails off, then continues. “I'm good with people, basically. Socially, I'm fine. Everything else, not so much.” 

“I'm terrible with people.” Harry accepted it a long time ago, it’s part of who he is. “I mean, in case you haven't noticed.”

“I-,” Niall pauses, searching Harry’s face. “You never mentioned why you moved all the way out here... to buttfuck nowhere, basically.” 

He has to know. There’s no way he doesn’t- it was everywhere for months on end, and every single fighter was asked their opinion on what made Harry Styles fuck up so bad. Harry lies anyway, just for the sake of his sanity. “No real reason. Just needed a change.”

“Ha.” Niall gives him that  _ look _ , this time mixed with doubt. “Okay.”

“You don’t believe me,” Harry says.

“Nope,” Niall responds, blatantly. “Sure don’t.”

“Let’s put it this way- I did something stupid,” Harry sighs, glossing over the story. “Some shit happened up there and now, I’m here.” Even without getting into detail, it’s nerve wracking. 

Niall accepts it, probably sensing that Harry doesn’t want to talk about it. “Fair enough.” 

“What about you?” Harry asks, redirecting the conversation. “Where you always here?” 

“I was born and raised here,” Niall says, somewhere between proud and jaded. 

“Wow.” 

Niall nods and traces the rim of his glass with his fingertip. “Just a regular desert kid. Poor as hell, with no way to get out other than going to college or joining the military.” 

“I grew up in Stockton,” Harry tells him. Random nerves creep up from somewhere and he chews his lip, anxious at the thought of talking about his life. 

“Yikes,” Niall says, then follows up immediately with, “no offense.”

“None taken,” Harry says, and goes on. “Kinda the same thing there. Nothing to get into but trouble. Which, I definitely did get into.” 

“What kind of trouble?” 

“Oh, the normal stuff,” Harry takes another drink, now glad he didn’t chug it like he planned to. “Skating and tagging. Weed. Underaged drinking.” 

Niall puts his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his palm. “I was too pussy to drink while I was in high school.” 

Harry smirks. “Goody two shoes?” 

“Sort of, yeah,” Niall grants, easily. 

“Probably a good thing you didn’t…someone should have told me not to start that young. Now I like it probably too much.” Harry raises his glass and finishes his beer.

“I get it.” Niall follows suit and finishes his beer too, pushing the glass away. “I knew a lot of people with the same problem- um, not that you think it’s a problem. I mean,  _ do  _ you think of it as a problem?” 

Harry smiles, despite himself. “I try not to think of it at all.” 

“Wait, I almost forgot.” Niall reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet. He puts a ten dollar bill on the table. “I promised you a drink.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to-,” Harry slides the bill back to Niall.

Niall slides it back. “No, I want to. Take it.”

“Fine.” Harry folds the bill and tucks in into his back pocket. “But only because you forced me to.”

Another silence falls between them. Harry keeps his eyes on the TV as he speaks. “What made you want to invite me out?” 

Niall leans into Harry’s space. Harry freezes, holding his breath. Niall lowers his voice, and Harry can feel Niall’s breath on his face when he speaks. “Can I be completely honest?” 

Harry finally turns to look, still caught off guard by Niall’s eye contact. “I was hoping you would be.” 

“You looked like you needed a friend.” 

Harry scoffs, but can’t help the smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “That bad, huh?”

“Are you as downright miserable as you look most days?” Niall jibes. 

“Not  _ all _ the time,” Harry concedes. “It’s mostly just my face. Resting bitch face and all that.” 

“Keeps away the assholes, at least.” 

As if on cue, Liam and Louis return. The drop down into their seats and Louis doesn’t make it five seconds without a wisecrack.

“Wow, Harry should you be drinking? I thought that was your trigger.”

Liam chimes in, “Don’t be insensitive. He has a problem, Lou.”

Harry takes a breath, and cracks his neck. In anger management, they told him not to engage with people like this. To be frank, Harry is three drinks in and couldn’t give a fuck about what he learned in anger management.

“Hey,” He turns to Louis and asks, as sweetly as possible, “Don’t you have a kid at home you should be with? I heard there’s a nasty custody battle brewing.” 

Louis’ eyes widen and Niall literally gasps. Liam cackles, pointing a teasing finger at Louis.

“You shouldn’t be laughing, Liam,” Harry says. “Didn't you pop for testosterone? Oh, wait, that’s right... they were just dick pills you bought at a drugstore. You got suspended for taking dick pills.” 

The entire table is speechless, Niall’s mouth is agape. He looks from Liam and Louis to Harry, waiting for someone to say something. 

Finally, Louis cracks a smile. He starts a slow clap. “Bravo, Harry Styles.”

Liam looks astonished as he joins in on the clap. “You passed.”

“Excuse me?” Harry frowns. “I  _ passed _ ?”

Next to him, Niall is equally confused. “Passed  _ what _ ?”

“At first we thought it would be unfair to test a person we knew had an, um,- you know, anger issue,” Liam says. 

“But, then we thought what better way to see if he could hang,” Louis adds. “Those insults cut deep, man. Anyone who can dish it out like that is alright in my book.”

“You’re insane,” Niall says, sounding exasperated. “You two are fucking crazy. I can’t believe I’m friends with you.”

Liam and Louis look pleased with themselves. Harry doesn’t know how to feel. On one hand, it’s irritating to be tested. But, on the other, Niall’s friends like him, so...? “What the fuck just happened?”

Louis stands up, pointing a thumb at the empty billiards table. “Game?”

Niall looks at Harry for approval. Harry shrugs. “I guess?”

“Awesome!” Liam jumps up. “I got dibs on Louis. No offense Niall, but you suck at pool.”

“Guess you’re stuck with me,” Niall says to Harry, getting out of his seat. 

They four of them play one game, drawing it out. Louis and Liam win, boasting and whooping loudly. 

“It’s getting late,” Niall says, dropping the pool cue onto the table. He yawns, as if to make his point. “I gotta be up in like 5 hours to run like a million miles. It’s dreadful and a hate crime.”

Harry laughs, loving the way Niall’s smile grows. “Good luck.” 

“That’s not what a hate crime is!” Liam calls, from the wall of pool cues.

“Well, I hate it, a lot, okay?” Niall responds. To Harry, he says, “Walk me out?”

Harry nods, his hands beginning to sweat. Outside, there’s a warm breeze that cools the new beads of sweat on his forehead. “Um, well, thanks for inviting me out. I really appreciate it.”

Niall shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking forward on his toes. “Of course. I had a good time.”

“Me too,” Harry admits. It’s probably the best time he’s had in recent memory. All because Niall took a chance on him.

“Let’s... do it again sometime?” Niall offers. “If you’re up for it.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, his mouth dry. “Got nothing better to do.”

Niall grins, so wide and bright that it rivals the moon above their heads. “Okay then. Have a good night.”

“You too,” Harry says, realizing he’s damn near whispering. 

Niall takes a couple of steps backwards, his gaze lingering on Harry for a moment before he turns and sets off down the narrow dirt road.


	2. Round Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> round 2 is long sorry haha

The sun beats down on Harry’s back, heating his skin. The heat is almost unbearable, dry and unforgiving to Harry’s lungs. He slows down to a lighter jog, to take one of the water bottles out of his waist belt. Squirting the water onto his face, and onto the bandanna keeping his hair back, he groans at the long stretch of desert in front of him.

The entire team is out this morning for a jog, an idea thought up by Niall’s coach. Niall needs to condition his cardio, and apparently it’s great for ‘moral support’ if the whole team joins him. Harry is dead last in the group, just trying not to overexert himself. For Harry, cardio is usually a piece of cake, but he has never experienced heat and altitude like this. He’s used to the bay area, with its sea level elevation, clouds, and moisture in the air. Here, in the high desert, it’s cloudless and dry with an elevation of nearly 3,000 feet. Unfortunately for Harry, the higher the altitude, the harder it is to catch your breath. The air is thin, making him dizzy and slightly nauseous. He should be thankful though- his next fight is in Denver, which has an atrocious elevation of 5,000 feet. Without the extra training, he might not make it through the first round.

The altitude, paired with a temperature in the high 90s, means Harry would very much like to drown himself in a tub of ice water.

The only good thing Harry has going for him right now is that Niall is jogging in front of him, keeping a steady pace and giving him quite the view. Niall’s body is...solid, for lack of better word. He's lean, not particularly ripped, but Harry can see the muscles in his back ripple under his skin, his well defined shoulders and biceps bulging with every move, and the sweat dripping down his chiseled back. He’s wearing these grey running shorts that don’t leave much to the imagination, clinging to his ass for dear life. His legs look strong, his thighs thick and his calf muscles making an appearance every time his feet hit the dirt.

They haven't spoken since the night at the bar, both of them too busy with training. But, Harry is fine with this, he thinks. Admiring from afar.

It’s almost as if Niall senses Harry staring. He falls back and jogs to Harry’s left. “Hey,” he pants. “How’s it going?”

Harry grunts in response and Niall huffs out a laugh. “There isn't enough sunscreen in the world to save my skin,” he says, holding out his arm. Sure enough, it’s bright red. “Don’t even wanna think about what my face looks like.”

Also bright red and glazed with sweat, Harry thinks, but still worth looking at. It makes his eyes look more vivid, and that’s...that’s just fine. “Thought you'd be used to the heat.”

“I am. Just-,” Niall pauses to take a drink of water. “Long distance running was never my thing. My cardio isn't the best.”

Harry knows this. Last night he spent a creepy amount of time watching Niall's old fights, studying how he works. Niall usually submits his opponents in the first round and has great defense. He’s so fast and his fights are so short, that he’s rarely been hit hard. On the rare occasions that his fights go past the first round, he definitely gasses out quickly.

“I heard something about you,” Niall says, squinting against the light bouncing off the dirt.

“You’ve heard quite a bit about me it seems,” Harry responds, already anticipating the worst. This could be it. Niall is going to tell him he knows all about everything that went down last year. The drunken fit, the arrest, the suspension…

Niall continues, as if Harry hadn’t uttered a word. “I heard that you’re really good at going the distance in fights.”

“I mean, yeah if I have to,” Harry replies, feeling his brows unfurrow. “But I try not to. It’s more fun for both people if it’s over quickly.”

Niall hums, huffs out a quiet laugh. “And here I thought it was better the _longer_ you go.”

Harry smiles, waits for a second in case he heard wrong. “...was that a sex joke?”

“It was.”

Harry lets himself laugh now, letting it bubble up out of him like a child. “Are you 15?”

Niall looks delighted. “I couldn’t help it, sorry.”

“Well- going five rounds can be fun too… if that’s what you’re into,” Harry says, because apparently he can’t help himself either.

Niall grins wickedly at him. “Why’s that?”

“You...get to know the other person-,”

“As a fighter,” Niall cuts off, he bites down on his lower lip, struggling to hold back his laugh.

“Right. As a _fighter_ ,” Harry adds, and Niall bursts into wild laughter. The sound travels, and with nothing to stop it, it surely reaches the mountain ranges in the distance.

“In all seriousness,” Harry continues, for the sake of not taking this too far, “you should always be prepared to go the distance.”

Niall sputters and purses his lips together like he’s trying to hold in another laugh.

Harry can’t help but beam at him. “God, what is it now?”

“I just thought of something so hilarious and _so_ inappropriate.”

“Do I even wanna hear it?”

Niall goes on, deciding that yes, Harry does want to hear it. “When you said I should always be prepared to ‘go the distance,’ I thought..,” He’s panting and laughing so hard that he can barely get the words out. “I thought, ‘well that’s what lube is for.’”

Harry’s eyes go wide and he brings a fist up to stifle his laugh. The harder he tries, the more the laugh gets caught in his chest. He skids to a stop and coughs, resting both hands on his knees, his composure long gone. “Jesus Christ, Niall.” He looks up and Niall seems pretty fucking proud of himself. The sun shines down on his flushed face, his smile perfect and white.

When all the laughter subsides, Niall says. “Alright, think it’s okay to resume with safe and appropriate fight-related conversations.”

“You sure?” Harry jests. “Don’t have anymore sex jokes in your arsenal?”

“I’m full of surprises,” Niall says, in lieu of an actual response. He turns and starts jogging forward again. Over his shoulder, he calls, “You coming or what?”

Harry suppresses his laughter, but does give Niall a look as he catches up. Niall gets it right away, without Harry having to say it.

“‘Coming.’” Niall repeats, his smile growing. “Now who’s got the dirty mind?”

Harry blushes, a different sort of heat on his skin now. “Whatever.”

“So, you hate the desert right?” Niall asks, a welcome change of subject.

“Um. It’s not so bad at night. When it’s not unbearably hot.”

“Oh, just wait until Fall and Winter, when it’s unbearably cold at night,” Niall says.

“Thanks for the heads up,” Harry chuckles. “Though I don’t mind the cold as much.”

Harry keeps his eyes ahead, but feels Niall look at him. “I can’t believe we’re talking about the weather right now. We’re past that kind of small talk aren’t we?”

“I guess,” Harry glances over at him, gives him a smirk. “Didn’t know there were levels.”

Niall slows down to walk. He uses the back of his arm to wipe the sweat on his forehead. “What do you like to do for fun?”

Harry slows down too, suddenly nervous. “Um, I don’t know? I really don’t do anything in my free time.” He can honestly say that other than training, he does nothing but sleep, drink, and watch TV. Those don’t count as ‘things you do for fun,’ when you just do them out of habit.

“Bullshit,” Niall responds. “No hobbies?”

“I like to write, I guess,” Harry answers. “Not anything serious. Just stupid stuff.”

“Everyone who writes thinks their writing is stupid,” Niall says.

“I think it’s obligatory,” Harry jokes.

“Fair enough.” Niall chuckles. “What inspires you?”

“What inspires me?”

“Yeah. To write.”

Harry thinks, mulls the question over in his head. He honestly tries not to look at Niall’s eyes. “Things that make me feel like I have no control of my emotions,” he answers, surprisingly honest. He fumbles over the next words, tongue-tied over the soft look on Niall’s face. “I-um- the other night I drove out here and sat in my car for while. Wrote some bullshit about the stars.” If Harry's being honest with himself (which he should do more often), it was one line about the stars and the rest about how Niall is made of them, and how it feels like Eros struck Harry in the chest with his arrow.

“I’d like to read that someday,” Niall says. “If you let me, of course.”

Harry shrugs, too fucking nervous to actually think about Niall reading his writing. “What about you? What do you do for fun?”

“Okay. Don’t laugh.”

Harry laughs immediately, of course. “Why would I laugh? Is it embarrassing? I just told you I write about the stars, so it couldn’t be that bad.”

“I watch Food Network a lot,” he says, biting back his smile. “So, basically I watch it and then I go to the grocery store, buy the ingredients for the recipe I just saw, then I’ll go home and try to replicate it perfectly.” Niall coughs and looks down at his hands, suddenly very interested in his nail beds.

Harry is positive that he’s fucking beaming at him now. He couldn’t be more smitten if he tried. “You’re a good cook then?”

Niall looks up and they lock eyes. “It’d be cocky if I said yes. So...how about I, um, make you dinner sometime, and let you be the judge?”

For a second, everything feels like a dream. Harry forgets where they are. He forgets that they’re both sunburned and gross and could probably smell better. He pictures them at Niall’s place, the lights low- maybe there are candles, maybe not. There’s wine, probably. Harry’s hair finally looks decent. Niall is wearing a shirt with the top three buttons undone and he’s smiling at Harry from over the kitchen table. They're comfortable, no tension, and they're tipsy enough that they're giggly. When their lips finally brush each others, there'll be fireworks...a shiver up Harry's spine like no other-

“When we both have time, of course,” Niall adds. “I mean, if that’s okay with you?”

Belatedly, Harry realizes he hasn’t said anything. “Oh, no- I mean, yeah totally. I’d be up for that. Whenever you’re not too busy.”

“Alright,” Niall smiles. “Sounds good.” He picks up his pace, stepping back into a light jog.

Harry follows, just content to be by his side.

-

Harry jolts awake with his heart racing. The sheets are damp and he’s panting like he just finished a hundred yard dash. He sits up and looks around. He’s still in his dark bedroom, alone. Soft blue light streams in through a crack in the curtains. A glance at his phone tells him it’s 6 AM, just fifteen minutes before his scheduled alarm. As he drags himself to the restroom, his heart is still pounding and his hands hurt from being clenched into fists while he slept. Splashing water on his face, he takes some deep breaths to ground himself. The nightmares are so common now, they’re almost normal to him. Almost. It still takes him time to settle and bring himself back to the present, but he’s mostly learned how to shrug them off and move on. He has to, otherwise he'd lock himself in his room all day.

Harry doesn’t realize he was looking forward to seeing Niall’s face until he sees it. When he gets to the gym around 7, there’s a media crew filming for something, interviewing some of the fighters. Niall is there with them, a thoughtful look on his face as he speaks. As Harry passes them, Niall steps away from the crew and motions Harry over. Harry goes, but gives a sidelong glance at the guy pointing the camera at them.

“Pre-fight ritual,” Niall starts. “What’s yours?”

“Don’t have one,” Harry answers, already starting to step out of the camera’s view. No offense, but being put on the spot is never fun.

Niall stops him. “Fine. But, don’t you wanna hear mine?”

Harry stops because, again, he won’t say no to a smile like that. “Sure.”

“I do 30 minutes of vinyasa.”

Harry raises his brows. “Yoga?”

“Keeps me from worrying about blowing out my knees, or something,” Niall explains. “Also helps with flexibility.”

Harry nods, shrugging his bag up on his shoulder. “I can’t imagine you doing yoga,” he says, though it’s a blatant lie. It’s far too easy to picture Niall bending over in front of him-

“Like I said, I’m full of surprises,” Niall says, with this devilish grin that would probably affect him more if there wasn’t a fucking camera pointed at them.

The camera guy turns to face Harry straight on now, interrupting their promising conversation. “Any post fight rituals?”

Harry looks at Niall, who's giving him an expectant look. “Umm, eating a pound of french fries?”

Niall lets out a quiet laugh and tilts his head curiously. “Is that when you win or lose?”

“Both,” Harry answers, loving the way Niall’s eyes light up. From the other side of the gym, Kevin whistles to get Harry’s attention. Reluctantly, Harry separates from Niall's side. “Sorry, I gotta get started. I’ll leave you to this.” He doesn’t look back at Niall as he walks away, because he knows he’ll want to be in his presence all day.

Kevin and Harry start with three rounds of a basic strength and conditioning circuit- 60 seconds each of battle ropes, kettlebell reps, bosu ball burpees, single leg deadlifts with a medicine ball, jumping lunges with dumbbells, and push-ups shoulder rows, with 30 seconds of rest in between each exercise. After he’s warmed up, they start the striking drills, working on checking legs kicks and building the power in his left hand. Around 9, they finally get into some sparring. It’s Harry’s favorite, the closest he gets to a fight without it actually being a real one. Kevin has been a head coach for years, and always gives Harry a run for his money, even in a practice match. It's tough sometimes but it reminds Harry that he's good at something. It gives him purpose- something to work toward, something that makes it worth getting out of bed. Without it, he's just another young guy with bruised knuckles and an anger issue. Without this, he's worthless.

“Take 20,” Kevin offers, dropping his gloves.

Harry accepts, dropping himself down onto a bench in the corner. There’s a power bar somewhere in the bottom of his gym bag that’s calling his name. He’s got a mouthful of the bar that’s somehow melted and stale at the same time, when someone calls his name.

“Styles!”

He looks over and there’s a man standing near the cage, waving him over. Niall is stood next to him, waving excitedly.

Harry goes, silently cursing the spell Niall has over him. Niall could ask Harry to cut off his ear and paint a portrait with the blood, and he’d probably consider it.

“So,” Niall says, with that _look_ on his face. The one that never fails to get Harry swooning like a schoolboy. “My grappling partner is sick. But, my coach says you’ll do. You up for it?”

“Uhh,” Harry looks around for Kevin. “I have like 15 minutes.”

Niall opens up the cage door and waves Harry inside. “We'll make it quick then.”

There's trust in grappling and wrestling with a training partner, knowing that they have your best interest and you have theirs. Whereas in a fight, the goal is to crush the person in front of you, sparring and grappling drills are to make each other better. Iron sharpening iron. Generally, grappling and ground work is uncomfortable for Harry. He's used to working on his feet, finishing fights with knockouts or TKOs. He tends to panic in real fights when gets taken down because he's not as well rounded in that area. Jiu Jitsu and wrestling aren’t quite second nature to him yet; he has to think and take time to strategize in his head before he makes a move and that slows him down. So, practicing this aspect is necessary, but also frustrating.

It's not any different with Niall, who is basically a fucking wrestling and submission wizard. Sometimes, guys that Harry grapple with go easy on him, knowing that it’s not really his thing. Niall is not making it easy.

He trips Harry, and takes him down like he weighs nothing, moving through him like he’s not even there and putting them chest to chest on the canvas. Niall is fluid and creative on the ground, going for submissions with no regard for what’s traditional or what might leave him open. He does it over and over, with ease. If this was a real fight, Harry wouldn’t stand a chance. Harry does have the weight and height advantage, but it means nothing against someone this skilled. When Harry manages to get to his feet, circling away from the cage, Niall shoots for a single leg takedown. Harry widens his stance to defend the takedown, but Niall is relentless. He grabs one leg, gets Harry down, and moves right into a side control position, lying across Harry’s torso. As Niall tries to pass into full mount, Harry tries to sweep into half guard to tangle their legs together. Niall takes note of this and lifts up to get the knee-on-belly position. He grabs Harry’s hands, gaining wrist control, and Harry takes in a shallow breath. “Enough?” Niall asks, barely out of breath.

“Nope,” Harry breathes. “I’m used to this.”

The only difference here is that Niall is decidedly more...distracting than anyone else Harry has trained with. Niall’s body is heavy and strong on Harry's, his sweat dripping onto Harry’s face. It’s gross, no doubt about it, but not any different than any fight he’s been in. It’s different because, well… it’s Niall. Harry dares to let his mind wander. He dares to admit that Niall is sort of _attractive_ like this. Not that he isn't attractive otherwise, but this is stirring something different in Harry's body.

While Harry is too distracted by Niall’s beauty to think of his next move, Niall is already moving from the knee-mount to an arm lock. He grabs Harry’s left arm, hooks one leg over Harry’s belly and the other over his chest, and falls back, taking Harry’s arm with him. Niall lets go before Harry can tap, and Harry appreciates not getting his arm broken. They reset in the center of the cage and the second Niall’s coach tells them to start, Niall puts Harry against the cage right away. With Niall’s shoulder pressed into Harry's chest, Harry gets his arms around Niall’s neck and secures a loose guillotine choke. Niall moves with the momentum, trips Harry and gets the double leg takedown. Harry still has the guillotine from the top, but has no leverage. Niall slips his head out, scrambles out and goes for what Harry thinks is an ankle lock. Harry rolls out and Niall lets him, allowing him to get to his feet. Once they reset again, they move to a clench position and Niall pulls guard and falls onto his back, taking Harry down with him. Harry tries to pass guard, to move into half-mount, but Niall hooks his ankles behind Harry’s back and closes the guard. As Harry tries to slip out, he makes the unfortunate mistake of leaving one of his arms available. Before he knows it, Niall has him in a triangle choke- one leg hooked over his left shoulder and the other snaked under the right armpit. He locks his ankles behind Harry’s back and extends Harry's right arm, scoring the armbar.

“Got you,” Niall is saying, as Harry comes out of his haze.

“You do- I mean, you did. You have me. Got me, I mean. You got me.”

“Nice work though” Niall says, helping Harry up.

“Yeah, sure,” Harry replies, shaking out his arm. He’d hate to be on the receiving end of a real armbar from Niall. “You’re just being nice.”

“Nothing wrong with being nice,” Niall says. “Afterall, I’m not here to tear you down. How about this? Next time, I step into your world and you show me some kicks.”

“Sure, why not?” Harry smirks. “Don’t see someone your height actually kicking someone in the head, but sure.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright I get it. You’re butthurt because I bested you. Get out of my cage.” He shoves Harry gently and Harry almost stumbles back, caught off guard by the light touch.

Harry leaves, but not without lingering as long as he can without it seeming weird, and goes back to finish his session with Kevin. They finish up the bulk of the session with more sparring and some light cardio, then Kevin leaves Harry to his own devices for the remainder of the day.

Once he’s alone, he sits on an empty mat with a foam roller and starts to stretch. He shouldn’t be surprised that minutes later, Niall walks up and joins him on the mat with his own foam roller.

“Hey,” Harry greets, moving over to make some room.

“Question,” Niall starts, using the roller for his hamstrings. Harry averts his eyes- he can’t be caught staring at another grown man’s thighs. Not in this context, at least. “Did you always know you wanted to be a fighter?”

“No,” Harry answers, easily. “It just sort of happened, I guess.”

“‘Just sort of happened,’” Niall repeats.

“Not a good enough answer for you?”

“I didn’t say that,” Niall replies coolly. “Just wondering how you just _stumble into_ MMA.”

“Okay, so what’s your story?” Harry challenges. “What made you start doing this?”

“It's almost the same story for everyone isn't it?” Niall says. He grimaces a bit as the foam roller presses into the tense muscle. “I think it’s a weird, primal thing. Survival, I think. Literally and figuratively.” Niall shifts his focus from the foam roller to Harry’s face. “Personally, I didn't like getting my ass kicked every day in middle school. I had to learn how to defend myself eventually, or I don't know where I'd be now.”

Harry nods, understanding. He thinks of his own adolescence, all the shit he got into, out of boredom and searching for a way to feel something other than anger and sadness. “No one ever fucked with me. I don't know how or why. I looked 12 until I was 17. Just a bad rep, I guess…,” Unfortunately, he still has the same problem to this day. Maybe in another five years, people will forget about it and Harry can start over, like a brand new fresh-faced up-and-coming fighter. Wholesome and pure.

“I get that,” Niall says, his voice low.

“When I wasn't locked in my room smoking, or playing video games for days straight, I would, like, break shit and throw things, and punch holes in walls…,” Harry trails off, studying Niall’s face. Niall stares back, that open expression etched into his features. It makes it easier for Harry to keep talking. “I wasn’t actually mean to anyone or violent then, I was just- I don’t know... My mom sent me to therapy at 15. My therapist suggested boxing.” Harry leaves out the part where he'd cut and burn himself regularly, not wanting to scare Niall off. It’s not something he tells anyone about. Frankly, he doesn’t like to think about it himself.

Niall hums, still not looking away or backing down. “Do you ever think about where you’d be if you weren't a fighter?”

“Yeah. Probably dead or in prison.”

Niall laughs and Harry lets out a wry chuckle too, the truth and seriousness of his words lost somewhere in translation. “I’d probably be a teacher. Or founder of a non-profit or something.”

“A _teacher_? Can’t picture it,” Harry admits. He’s thankful Niall doesn’t pry any further. He’d much rather have the focus on anything other than his low self esteem.

“Yeah, I actually did want to teach, believe it or not,” Niall continues. “There was a time, in high school, where I wasn’t sure if I actually wanted to pursue combat sports. I was Vice President of the Key Club and a literal _mathlete._ ”

“Oh, so you were a nerd?” Harry teases.

Niall grins. “I resent that. I was only somewhat of a nerd. I tutored on the weekend, and spent the rest of my free time wrestling. Won two national championships. I did end up graduating early, with honors. and was supposed to move to LA for school. I had a scholarship and everything. But...I didn’t go.”

“A scholarship?” Harry presses on, not able to resist the way Niall’s cheeks redden. “You were a total nerd.”

“Fine, I might be a nerd but I have these.” He flexes his biceps, and says, “That's all that really matters right?” It literally makes Harry’s mouth dry. For a second, he thinks ‘Please choke me,’ and has to mentally reel himself in before he launches into a full fledged daydream.

Harry blinks and forces a laugh. “Seriously though, I don't understand how you gave up college, job security, and the chance to have a pretty normal life- to get punched in the face for a living?”

“I don’t know. It all came down to this feeling better than anything else. Less pressure…,” Niall stops for a second and chews his lip, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. He drops his gaze to the mat. “It definitely had something to do with the slight breakdown I had the night before graduation.”

The mood shifts to something less casual and more serious, and Harry takes a minute to think about what to say next. He’s not good at this, talking to people about their issues. He has enough of his own to think about. “Maybe you were doing too much.”

“Yeah, and at the same time I didn't want to stop. I was afraid of not being efficient enough or something. But I knew if I kept doing what I was doing, I'd burn out.” Niall sighs and shakes his head. He looks almost sad for a second, and it makes Harry’s heart sink. He stays quiet, giving Niall the space to talk. “I had all this stuff that built up over the years and I guess it caught up to me. That summer, I ended up going to therapy for the first time. Found out that the way I felt all those years wasn’t as normal as I thought it was.”

Before meeting him, Harry didn’t have much of an opinion of NIall. And up until now, his only opinion has been along the lines of: ‘I could look at you forever, I could sit silently and memorize the way you speak, the way the tip of your tongue touches your teeth, the way your lips move and how I want them to move against mine.’ But, now Harry’s perception has grown. He’s not just ‘sweet and funny guy who Harry wants to kiss.’

“Wow.” It’s not eloquent, Harry knows, but Niall seems to accept the acknowledgment.

“After that, I kinda let my parents believe I still wanted to go to school, but I spent more time getting into this.” Niall smiles now, waving his hand around at the gym. “It was one of the only ways I could decompress and like, not be overwhelmed with basic everyday things. It wasn’t until I took my first amatuer fight that my mom realized I was serious about it.”

Harry thinks about his mom now, and how she was just happy that he had a hobby that wouldn't get him arrested. “Does she support what you do?”

“Oh yeah, she's my number one fan probably. I’m sure she’d be happier if I was doing something _safer_ -,”

“Like a yoga teacher?” Harry interjects.

Niall squints at him, a smile fighting its way onto his face. “Yes, exactly. Like a yoga teacher.”

“I’ve never tried yoga myself,” Harry says, trying to ignore the stupid butterflies in his stomach. “But, I figure if you do it, it’s probably worth trying.”

Niall hums, and moves his foam roller off the mat. “You think so?”

"You should teach me some stuff," Harry says, his heart racing. It’s been so long since he’s even _thought_ about putting himself out there. He feels like a middle schooler with a crush. "You know, to help me with my flexibility...and jiu jitsu."

"For your _flexibility_...and jiu jitsu," Niall muses. He bites his lip and tugs his hand through his hair, pulling it away from his forehead. He moves over, so he’s sitting at Harry’s side, and lowers his voice. "Right, so dinner and then yoga or yoga and then dinner?”

“I, um-,’ Harry basically chokes on air and resorts to blinking and gaping his mouth open and closed like a dying fish. The longer he does it, the more Niall’s grin grows. Before Harry can think of a response other than ‘anything you want,’ their moment is interrupted.

“Hey you two!” Liam plops himself down right between them. He pats Harry on the back, harder than necessary. “Good to see _you_ with a smile on your face.”

Niall jabs Liam in the stomach with his finger. “What do you want, doughboy?”

Liam frowns. “Just wanted to say hi. Then you insulted me.”

“You _are_ looking a little soft,” Harry adds, for the sake of making Niall laugh.

“Hey fuck you man!” Liam squawks, which makes Niall laugh harder. “And by the way, I'm like a week away from my abs poking through again.”

Niall purses his lips. “You keep telling yourself that, alright? Tell me how it works out. But, in the meantime, would you mind leaving us-,”

“Yo! The whole gang's here!” Louis hops over and ruffles Niall’s hair, which Niall protests, and squishes himself in between Liam and Harry. “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing,” Niall sighs, cutting a glance in Harry’s direction. “Absolutely nothing.”

Louis whistles. “Didn’t look like it from where I was sitting-,”

“Okay,” Niall gets to his feet, lifting his arms over his head. “I think I’m gonna call it a day. See you tomorrow, bright and early.” He flashes a smile at Harry and with that, he’s walking away.

It isn’t until an hour later, when he has time to look at his phone, that Harry sees the text from Niall.

‘ _Always nice talking to you. :) see you tomorrow (and hopefully sometime outside of the gym haha_ )’

Harry swoons about it for a while, lying in bed alone with a wild grin on his face. Then, it hits him. The grin fades and trepidation starts seeping into his chest.

“Fuck,” he says, to the dark room. He whispers fiercely to himself, “You’re going to fuck this up. Please don’t fuck this up. Please, please, please.”

-

Sweat pools between Harry’s warm and clammy skin and the thin plastic sauna suit. Underneath, his t-shirt is soaked through and his shorts stick to his thighs. His hair is matted down with sweat, and his lungs burn with every labored step on the treadmill. The fatigue makes it hard for him to lift his arms and the emptiness of his stomach is starting to make his legs weak.

The number on the scale has not changed in three days. In a little over 12 hours, he weighs in for his fight on Saturday night. With not even a full day left, he’s still 4.5 pounds over. His team is trying to keep Harry’s morale up, but he knows they don’t believe anything they’re saying. Harry knows that it’s nearly futile. With the new MMA rules, weigh-ins are earlier to give fighters the time to rehydrate, but it’s ultimately fucking everyone over because no one has enough time to cut anymore. It’s just unfortunate that Harry generally has a hard time functioning, even without the overexertion and starvation.

He’s had a headache for eight days straight, the muscles in his brain pounding against his skull. The lethargy set in five days ago, on the flight to Denver, and it’s only gotten worse. This morning, instead of breakfast, he spent two hours in a sauna, trying to sweat out the last few pounds. He hasn’t had a sip of water in 24 hours, and he’s been doing cardio for 72 hours straight. Even with all of that, his weight hasn’t changed. He would say that god, fate, or luck isn’t on his side, but it’s just his body fighting against him.

The darkness is closing in, faster than he can handle, and this is only accelerating it.

As he peels off his wet t-shirt and retreats to his hotel balcony, his will to keep going starts slipping through his fingers. For the past few days, he’s felt simultaneously too big and too small for his skin. It’s exhausting, having to put so much effort into feeling _just okay_. Most times, during his weight cut, he can usually push through. Mind over matter. But when his mind is as weak as his body, he has no choice but to give up. He looks at his shaking hands, feeling not-quite present or real. There’s a desire, deep inside him, to know what triggers this. What makes him lose footing so quickly and plummet into darkness that will imminently last for weeks on end?

Outside, the evening air is still warm, but not as unbearable as the hot summer night breeze at home. _Home,_ he thinks. Mojave isn’t his home- it’s just where he lives. He could be anywhere, feeling and doing the same. There’s only one good thing about Mojave, and his smile could bring a tear to Harry’s eye.

Harry picks up his moleskine from the table next to him and opens it up. The empty page stares back at him. A long time ago, a therapist told him that writing would be a good thing to try. He remembers going home that night, trying it once and never looking back. But now his mind is uncomfortably blank, unable to formulate anything remotely poetic or beautiful.

In front of him the sun is beginning to set, painting a mixture of oranges and blue across the sky. Below him, about six floors down, there’s an empty parking lot.

From somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought creeps up and whispers to him: “ _It would be over pretty fast.”_ Harry steps back away from the wall, taking a deep breath. His hands begin to tremble. He shuts his eyes and the first thing he sees is himself sitting on the brick wall, his feet hanging over.

Harry steps inside and locks the sliding door behind him. Instead of trying to talk himself out of it, he picks up his phone and searches for Niall’s contact.

It only rings once before he picks up. “Harry?”

There’s a beat before Harry fully realizes what he’s doing. Still, when he closes his eyes, he pictures himself falling fast towards the concrete. He paces across the floor and tries to think of literally anything else. Niall’s smile comes to mind. He’s been lucky enough to see it every day during the lead-up of this fight. “Hey.”

“Hey?” Niall replies. “You sound super weird.”

“Weird how?” Harry responds, now hyper aware of his voice.

“Like.. _sluggish_? Like you have a mouth full of peanut butter?” Niall chuckles. “I take it the weight cut is kicking your ass. How’s everything?”

“Shit,” Harry responds, trying (and failing) to laugh. “Everything is kind of shitty.”

“You’re almost there,” Niall tells him. “Just a few more hours, really.”

Harry nods, not particularly comforted. There’s no guarantee he’ll last a few more hours. “Are you still in California?”

“Yeah, but my flight is tonight at 10. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t miss your fight for the world.”

It does calm him down, even if it’s just a little. “Okay, cool, cool.”

There’s silence on the other end for a second, and then: “You alright Harry?”

Of course not. When is he ever? Nevertheless, he says: “I’m fine. Sorry for bothering you. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and hangs up the phone.

In the bathroom, he turns on the cold water and splashes some on his face. In his reflection, his eyes look hollow and his cheeks slightly gaunt from lack of water.

For the first time, he wishes his family was here to support him. They’ve never come to any of his fights, but not for lack of trying. Even if they beg, Harry refuses. He doesn’t lose often, but he knows anything can happen. The last thing he wants is his mother sitting in the front row to see him get him get knocked out for the first time. Sometimes, the fights are so close and hard fought that both he and his opponent come out with both eyes swollen shut. He won’t put her through that; she’ll fuss over him until the end of time.

Above it all, he just likes to be alone after his fights. He’ll reflect and relax, already brainstorming on how to be better.

Harry slumps down onto the bathroom floor and dials his mother’s number, just to hear her voice. Whenever he talks to her, he always feels like he has to apologize. For high school, for the way he shut her out for so many years and the way he still struggles to let her in. He wants to say sorry for the public embarrassment, and all the ways he’s not a good enough son to her.  He still pays for her apartment, in a nicer neighborhood than the one he grew up in. He wants to do more for her, to be better, and wants to tell her as much. Instead, he calls to say I love you and that he misses her.

“You need to come visit me,” she says, like always.

“I will, when I’m in the area,” he says, like always.

When he finally crawls into bed for the night, his phone sounds with a text notification.

Niall: _‘You weren’t bothering me at all earlier. Hope you’re okay. See you tomorrow_ 💪 _’_

_-_

The moment of truth comes and goes so fast that Harry barely has time to register it. He’s tired, and so hungry he can barely stand up. If he moves too quickly, the room spins, so he tries to stay as still as possible. He’s standing there, stark naked with a towel held over his body, hoping the lack of clothes takes off a few extra ounces.He blinks at the numbers on the scale, the voices of everyone around him fading into the background. His manager, his coach, his teammates, paramedics, and members of the Colorado state athletic commission are packed into an empty dining hall at the hotel, all of their eyes on Harry.

158.

Harry blinks at it again, willing it to change. 158. Three pounds over.

Suddenly, he’s being helped into his clothes. Someone next to him hands him a water bottle. Harry grasps it, still staring at the number. There’s a pat on his back. “Sorry bud. Let’s start rehydrating.”

Harry steps off the scale and chugs the water, already reaching for another bottle. Kevin hands it to him. “You’re fine, Harry. Let’s just start focusing on the fight.”

“Yeah.” Harry drinks the second water bottle and motions for a third. Halfway through it, he stops. His blood is boiling, he realizes. Fury, his old friend, comes back with a vengeance.

Harry drops the bottle and steps off the makeshift stage. Craig and Kevin are already at his side, ready to contain him. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself. He wants a drink. No, he _needs_ a drink.

Harry is herded into a meeting room with his managers and members of the commission. The negotiation starts right away, since they need to get it in writing and get all the papers signed before tomorrow morning. The entire time Craig is talking, doing his best to explain how “tough” it's been for Harry, Harry is steaming. As he signs the paper, agreeing to give 20 percent of his purse to his opponent, he sees red. Harry all but jumps out of the chair to leave the room.

Leslie King, one of the least annoying MMA journalists, happens to meet him right outside the door. Bad choice, Harry thinks. “Don’t ask me shit,” Harry hisses, shoving past him.

“Whoa, buddy, watch it.” Leslie jogs to catch up to Harry. “I just had one question, no need to get out of sorts.”

Harry turns to him, looking down at his annoying little face and stupid smirk. “And I just told you not to ask me shit,” he growls. “Or do I have to smash your glasses into your fucking face?”

“Whoa, whoa, hey, Harry chill.” Kevin comes up next to him, tugging him by the arm.

“ _Don’t touch me_.” He snatches away and backs up. “No one touch me.”

Anger flashes in his eyes and that’s it, he’s unhinged. It’s a blur as he stalks over to the signing table and flips it over with ease, sending papers flying everywhere. There’s nothing but buzzing in his ears as he pushes through the group of commissioners, resisting the urge to smack the cameras out of every single journalist’s hands. He storms out of the room, stalks down the hall. Kevin and Craig chase after him, calling his name. Harry ignores them, pressing the elevator call button. If he doesn’t get to his room soon he might fucking lose it.

Once alone, in the elevator, regret washes over him. It makes his skin go cold and tears spring to his eyes. He nearly collapses right there, the sobs ripping a hole in his chest.

There's no food in Harry's room, other than a box of power bars. Harry tears the box open and starts in right away. After closing the curtains, he climbs into bed and pulls the comforter over his head. It’s sort of pathetic, hiding under the covers and eating protein bars, but it definitely matches how he feels.

The crying only lasts for a few minutes, thank god. Harry isn’t near enough hydrated to cry himself to sleep. He lies there on his damp pillow and closes his eyes anyway, hoping for any sort of peace.

A knock at the door hinders his chances.

“Fuck off!” Harry shouts, from under the comforter. He doesn’t want to see another person until he’s obligated to. There are hours before the televised weigh-ins, and he plans on spending every one of them right here in this too-soft hotel bed. He’ll get over this soon. He has to. It does no good wallowing in it and waiting around for something else to make him feel worse.

The knock persists. “It’s Niall.”

Harry pokes his head out from under the cover. “Niall?” He scrambles out of bed, his legs tangled in the sheets. “Shit, shit, shit.” He tries to flatten his hair where he’s positive it’s sticking up on one side, and wipes under his eyes for any stray tears.

When he opens the door, Niall isn’t smiling. It’s disappointing, to say the least.

“Hey,” he says, his voice dripping with concern. “You okay? I heard what happened.”

Harry shrugs. He’ll play this cool, or as cool as he can when he may or may not be considering throwing himself off his balcony. “It’s whatever. It’s just three pounds...sucks, but, you know…can’t do anything about it. Honestly, I’m just hungry.”

“Okay,” Niall says, his eyes searching Harry’s face. He can see right through him, Harry knows. “Let’s go get breakfast. My treat.”

Harry swallows the lump in his throat and nods. “Okay, just let me-,” he points a thumb to the room. “I’m gonna change.” With a change of his shirt and into a pair of shorts he deems clean enough, he figures he’s as ready as he’ll ever be. He pulls a baseball cap onto his head and turns it backwards to keep his hair out of his face. This time, Nall does offer a tiny smile when Harry walks out into the hall.

“What?” Harry asks. “I know I look like shit.”

“You don’t,” Niall says easily. “I like the hat.”

Harry follows him to the elevator. They’re quiet, with nothing but the elevator music filling the silence between them. Niall keeps his hands in his pockets and his eyes ahead. It makes Harry even more nervous than he already was.

Outside, they squint against the sun as they walk across the street. “I googled this place,” Niall informs, pointing to the cafe on the corner. “And I fully intend on pigging out, if you don’t mind.”

A smile somehow makes it way onto Harry’s face. “I don’t mind.”

They sit at a table in the corner, next to the window. Harry looks out at the busy intersection. The city is bustling with MMA fans for tomorrow's event. Surely, some of the people have come to see him. Harry’s stomach turns at the idea of letting them down. The thing is, he knows he’ll do well. He’s worked hard for this. He’s trained for this. This is his entire life. But, what if the other guy worked harder?  What if the other guy doesn’t have demons to battle, and can focus completely on being the best he can be?

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Huh?” Harry looks away from the window. Niall already has a glass of water in front of him. There’s one in front of Harry too. When did the server come by? “My favorite food?”

“Yeah,” Niall props his elbow up on the table and rest his chin in his palm. “Or are you one of those people who lie and claim they don’t have one?”

“Fries, probably,” Harry answers with a shrug. “You can’t really fuck up fries.”

Niall frowns. “You can _totally_ fuck up fries. I can name about a dozen ways you can fuck up fries.”

“Okay. Name one,” Harry challenges.

“Too much salt.”

“Alright, fine, but that’s a given-,”

Niall continues, holding up his fingers to count. “Too thick, undercooked, too thin, not enough salt, too much pepper, overcooked, that weird cajun seasoning people put on it-,”

“I love cajun seasoning,” Harry admits, “especially on fries-,”

Niall blinks and holds up both of his hands to cut Harry off. “I have to stop you. I don’t think we can be friends if you insist on ruining fried potatoes with _cajun seasoning._ ”

Harry laughs, though it feels strange coming out. “Is it that serious?”

“Yes, it’s that fucking serious,” Niall responds. He slams his hand on the table, making the forks and knives jump. The faux serious expression on his face begins the crack as soon as he continues. “I’m giving you an ultimatum. Me, or the cajun fries.”

“Easy,” Harry says, his laughter subsiding. “There are so many other foods to eat, and only one you. So, I pick you. I’d probably always pick you.” Over anything and everyone, Harry adds silently. Harry would pick him every single day, for the rest of his life.

Niall’s jaw drops, quite literally. Harry can’t tell if it’s put on or not, but he definitely does notice the way Niall’s posture relaxes when he sighs. “I- wow, okay. Kinda speechless over here.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You didn’t honestly think I’d pick fries over you, did you?”

“Well, no,” Niall says, suddenly very interested in the lemon in his water. “I just didn’t think you’d say it like _that_.”

“Like what?” Harry asks, crossing his arms on the table.

“Like...you really meant it,” Niall responds, swirling the lemon around in the glass.

Harry looks at him, basically getting a view of the top of his head. “Well, because I did.”

Niall blinks up at him, his brows furrowing and unfurrowing. There’s something on the tip of his tongue but he settles on nodding. “I- okay.”

Harry leans back against his chair. “You’ve been so nice to me,” he says, picking at the paper placemat on the table. He turns his head and looks out of the window, across the street at the towering hotel. “Not gonna lie, you’re kinda saving my life right now.” The honesty lifts a weight off his shoulders that he didn’t know he had. He doesn’t even question or second-guess his decision to share, because now Niall is looking at him so softly that Harry could melt and slip between the cracks in the floor.

A perky server approaches the table then, giving Harry a much needed break from Niall’s stare. Niall orders something called the ‘hangover burger’ and fries. Apparently, it has a fried egg and sausage on it, so it counts as breakfast. Harry orders a BLT, because he can’t focus on reading the menu. The words blur and jumble, signaling the return of his headache.  

Once the server leaves, a silence falls between them. After a long minute, Niall picks up his placemat and starts folding it. He folds the corners down first, and then folds those so they all meet in the center.  

“What are you making?” Harry asks, his curious getting the better of it.

“You’ll see,” Niall says, completely focused on the project.

Harry waits, and surely enough, he does see. It’s one of those origami fortune teller things that girls used to make in elementary school. Niall folds the paper like he’s definitely made more than one of these in his lifetime.

When another server walks by, Niall stops them. “Excuse me, can I borrow a pen?” The server pulls a pen out of their apron, and Niall flashes them a 500 watt smile in return.  After he’s done folding, he unfolds the square and writes the numbers on the flaps. When it’s time to write the “fortunes” on the inside, he hides the paper with his other arm and gives Harry a suspicious look. “No peeking.”

Harry beams. His face already hurts from smiling so hard. “I wasn’t peeking.”

“Okay,” Niall announces, refolding all the flaps. He places his fingers inside the little pockets and holds up the little paper toy. “What’s your favorite number?”

“Five,” Harry answers, picking a random number.

Niall pauses. “Any significance to that?”

Harry shakes his head. “Nope. Completely random.”

“Don’t believe you, but sure. Five.” Niall opens and closes the mouth of the paper toy five times, alternating even and odd numbers. “Pick another number.”

“Five, of course,” Harry says, giving Niall a smirk.

“I'm definitely putting that on my list of things to ask you,” Niall mutters, as he opens flap number five.

“There's a list?”

“Up here,” Niall taps his head and slides the fortune teller across the table. “Why don't you read me your fortune?”

Harry picks it up, his cheeks burning. “‘You will win your fight tomorrow night,’” he reads. He chuckles when he sees that the fortune next to it says the same thing. “Do they all say this?”

Niall shrugs. “Maybe so.”

Harry gives Niall his best doubtful look and starts opening up all of the flaps. All of them say the same thing, except for one. “‘I really like hanging out with you,’” Harry reads. It sends that special brand of warmth up his spine. “That isn't a fortune.”

“It's true though.”

“I like hanging out with you too.” Harry keeps it at that, doesn’t let on that he would literally run away to another country with Niall right this minute, if he asked.

“Good,” Niall says, like it's final. Like they've sealed the deal. He looks contented, his eyes shining like they tend to do. And that’s- unfortunate, is what it is.

“Listen,” Harry starts. There's no delicate way to put this, but he'll try.

Niall leans forward. “Hmm?”

Harry opens his mouth and nothing comes out. _‘I'm complicated_ ,’ he wants to say, _‘I'm a mess, you don't really know me. I'm sorry if I made you think I was someone different_.’

“Yes?” Niall prods.

“I’m...glad you invited me out,” he decides to say. “I really needed this.”

Niall reaches across the table and puts his hand on top of Harry’s. Harry freezes, his heart jumping up into his throat. “You got this,” Niall says. “You’re literally the best fighter I know. What’s three pounds and a couple bucks lost? Who gives a shit about that? Yeah it sucks to miss weight, but I know that’s not your main priority. You train to perform well and that’s what you’re going to do.”

It’s always a strange and uneasy feeling when this gross, thick layer of melancholy envelopes him, but something happens to crack his hardened shell, dig through the layers and find the last bit of brightness to bring to the surface. It’s scary how happiness can flood him, but still not reach the deepest, heaviest, darkest parts of him. He’s felt this before, and it’s always conflicting. It’s what Niall is doing to him right now, his hand a welcome weight that reminds Harry that he’s real, and that this is really happening.

Harry relaxes in his seat a little more, pulling his hand away from Niall’s before he does something fucking stupid like intertwine their fingers.

As they eat, Niall tells Harry about competing in his first national wrestling tournament in high school while simultaneously maintaining his role as President of the Key Club. During his story, he stops about six times to apologize for rambling, but Harry doesn't mind. Sometimes it's nice not having to talk. There’s also that thing about wanting to listen to Niall talk forever and ever, but that’s another thing entirely.

After breakfast, Niall walks Harry all the way back to his hotel room. They stop at the door and look at each other for what feels like a full minute, without saying anything. Harry doesn’t have any real plans for the rest of the day other than getting ready for the televised weigh-ins, and he knows Niall doesn’t have much to do either.

It dawns on Harry that he isn’t even sure if Niall knows anyone else that's fighting on the card tomorrow, which probably means he traveled all the way to Colorado to see Harry. If that’s the case, Harry is grateful. He’s also deliriously charmed, and knows that at this point it would make perfect sense to invite him inside. Maybe they'll sit together on Harry's too-soft hotel bed, watching TV and wasting hours, talking in circles until Harry finally musters up enough courage to say he likes him.

Still, Harry only nods when Niall promises to see him later. He watches Niall walk down the hall until he disappears around the corner. When Harry reaches into his back pocket for his keycard, the folded up fortune teller comes out with it. A smile pulls at his lips as he turns it over in his hand. As soon as he steps into his room, he makes sure to tuck the folded piece of paper into his journal.

-

The typical fight-day nerves rouse Harry from his sleep. He’s not too proud to admit he gets nervous before each fight. Any fighter who says they never get nervous is a liar that’s trying to prove something. It doesn't matter if you've fought once or dozens of times, every fighter has a fear of the unknown, that unsettling feeling that anything can happen. No matter how much you train, and how confident you feel, you can only control so much. Despite this, Harry knows that nothing good ever comes from overthinking and overplanning.  

The fight day routine comforts him. Long, hot shower, and then breakfast alone in his hotel room with the TV on for background noise. Kevin and Craig show up around 10 to help him get his stuff together. The van gets to the hotel around 10:30, to take them to the venue. They get to the arena at 11, and he sits in a chair and tries to sleep for an hour. When he wakes up, he has seven more hours to kill. He spends the first two sitting around backstage, drinking an inordinate amount of water and trying his best to relax before all the real craziness starts. In just a few hours, cameras, journalists, and members of everyone’s ‘entourage’ will be crowding the place.

He spends an hour doing light warm-ups with some guys from a different gym, and another hour walking around the venue, trying to avoid any stray journalist who’s looking for a soundbite. At five, when the prelims start, he settles back into his place backstage and puts on his headphones.

Aside from his impending depressive episode and/or downward spiral, he feels okay. He’s gained most of his water weight back, and his headache isn’t bothering him as much as usual. He regards this as a small victory, the absolute least he could ask for. He closes his eyes and tries to shut out the rest of the room for his last hour of downtime.

A tap on his shoulder makes him nearly jump out of his seat. He tugs off his headphones and turns in his chair.

“Oh.”

“Hey.” Niall looks good, like he always does. His hair perfectly disheveled, eyes bright, and cheeks flushed. He pulls up a chair and cuts right to the chase. “How are you feeling?”

Harry looks around. His team, and the rest of the group, is preoccupied with the flat screen on that wall that’s playing the first preliminary bout. Kevin and Craig are deliberately giving him space before they have bombard him with last minute coaching. “Okay, I guess.”

“You guess?” Niall questions. There’s not a hint of humor in his voice, which doesn’t sit well with Harry. It sinks into the bottom of his gut, making him feel even heavier. If Harry could fake a smile or put on a facade, he would. It would be worth it not to feel like such a Debbie Downer. But, it’s hard to explain how on some days, it’s so much more difficult to converse. It comes on fast, and it doesn’t register until it’s actually happening. Suddenly, his mouth is dry and saying more than two or three words at a time is fucking draining.

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know… just not really up for talking or anything.”

“Okay.” Niall pauses, taking a look around the room. His eyes find Harry again, and that softness is back in his expression. “Take a walk with me?”

Of course, Harry goes. Niall leads him down the hall, past the other fighters’ rooms, past the tech crew, past the catering tables, and out of a back exit. Harry doesn’t ask where they’re going- as far as he’s concerned, they could walk forever with no destination in mind. Being by Niall’s side is easy, it’s a simple desire that he doesn’t have to question. Despite Harry’s disposition and the silence, there’s a mutual comfort between them.

They walk side by side to the end of the block and stop. Niall looks both ways, contemplative, and goes left. After a few minutes of silent walking, Niall slows to a stop under a tree that’s tucked between a coffee shop and some sort of clothing boutique. The tree has leaves that are thick enough to shade its entire perimeter. The trunk is wide, with initials and names scratched into the bark. Niall walks around to the other side and Harry follows. Together they sit on a wooden bench that’s almost merged with the tree- the tree’s thick roots wrap up around the legs of the seat. In front of them, they can see the sky between the two buildings. The sun is getting low in the sky, teasing a sunset that’s hours away.

“This is nice,” Niall says, his gaze straight ahead. “I saw this spot yesterday and had to come back.”

Harry nods in agreement. When Niall shifts and his knee rests against Harry’s, Harry doesn’t move. He can feel Niall look down at where they’re touching, and his heart stutters in his chest. They’re quiet for a long time after that, just watching the sun get lower until it disappears behind the buildings in the distance.

Finally, Niall speaks up again. “Hey.”

Harry looks, going a bit breathless when they lock eyes. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to give you something,” he answers, reaching into his jacket. He pulls out paperback book, and hands it to Harry. “It has, like, meditations, mantras, and breathing exercises that you can try.”

It’s an older copy, the cover tattered and barely legible. Inside, the words are decorated with highlighter marks and underlinings, and the margins are filled with handwritten footnotes. For some reason, looking at Niall’s messy handwriting and the creased, bookmarked pages makes Harry's heart swell. Not to his surprise, tears begin to prick at his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he shuts his eyes against the tears. He’s never been one to cry in front of people, especially not people who he likes so much he could explode with fondness. Especially not over simple acts of kindness like this. Harry can’t remember the last time anyone, other than his own mother, has given him a gift. It’s been a long time since he’s felt like this, like he means enough for someone to give him something just for the sake of making him happy. Knowing that his is Niall’s personal copy is just the cherry on top.

“Just thought you could use it,” Niall says, bringing his hand up to rub the back of his neck. His gaze darts down at Harry’s hands and quickly back up to his eyes. “Hope it’s not, like, weird or anything.”

Harry shakes his head, coughing to clear his throat. “It’s not,” he says. “It’s so not weird.”

“Oh thank god,” Niall sighs and clutches his chest. “For a second I thought you hated it.”

“No, I'm just-,” Harry stops, before he says something completely out of line. Something like: ‘ _You are literally my favorite person in the entire world, and I don't even know what to do with myself.’_ “This means a lot to me.”

“I’m glad,” Niall responds, and turns to look at the sky. “You should probably be getting back soon.”

“Probably,” Harry says, but doesn’t move to get up. Part of him wishes they could just sit here and maybe, if it’s not too much to ask, Niall will hold his hand.

Instead Niall stands up, “Ready to go?”

The walk back is just as quiet. It might be in Harry’s imagination, but they’re walking a little closer, their elbows brushing against each other’s every few seconds. Once they’re at the back entrance, they see Craig standing outside with a cigarette between his lips. He’s about ready to have a conniption, Harry can tell.

“That fucking stinks,” Harry tells him, in lieu of a greeting.

“Thought you had run off,” Craig says, stabbing the cigarette into the doorframe. “Let’s go, Kevin is looking for you.”

Inside, Harry turns to Niall, who has a smile on his face now. He puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder and squeezes. “You got this,” he says. “I can’t wait to watch you win.”

And Harry really fucking hopes he does. As he sets off to find Kevin, he decides that disappointing Niall would be the worst possible outcome.

It’s easy to say that no matter what happens, he ‘ _tried his best_.’  But, he knows better. If he doesn’t win, he didn’t try his best. He’ll go in and give everything he has- blood, sweat, and every tear he has left- but if he doesn’t win, it won’t matter. Deep down, he knows that.

As he walks out, his chosen music blares through the venue’s speakers and the lights are bright, red and white dancing over the excited crowd. Harry stops before the cage and kicks off his shoes, pulls off his shirt, and waits for the cut man to grease up his face and check his mouth guard. Once he gets the okay, he gives Kevin a hug and steps into the cage, letting the officials close the door behind him. Across the cage, Smith is already in his corner, bouncing on his toes. They stare each other down, the tension and anticipation palpable. Being in a locked cage with another professional fighter, someone who is dead set on fucking you up, is a unique feeling. There’s nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. All your flaws, all of your shortcomings are right there for the everyone to see. When bell rings and the round starts, there’s nothing to do but step up.

The moment the referee gives them the motion to start, Smith steps in and goes for the takedown right away, shooting for a messy single leg. Harry defends it easily, ready with an uppercut when Smith gets back up. It’s a good start, no awkward feeler punches or moves. They're rams, charging at each other and getting locked in the clinch right away.

Fighting is intimate. When you’re close enough, you can feel your opponent's pulse, their breath and sweat on your skin. As they battle each other for underhooks, Harry walks Smith into the cage. They’re in Harry’s corner, and he can hear Kevin shouting directions at him. Harry is confident in this position, knowing that if he can defend a take down then he’ll win the clinch battle every time. He follows Kevin’s instructions and starts throwing knees to Smith’s body. Smith twists and turns to escape the clinch, but Harry keeps him in position starts throwing elbows. One gets through, and definitely stiffs him for a second. Smith manages to fight his way out of the clinch, but Harry throws a left hook on the break that lands flush on Smith’s jaw. For the rest of the round, Harry controls the pace. He cuts Smith off at every advance, hitting him at will. At the very end of the round, Harry throws an elbow that cuts his opponent deep. It gushes blood, running over his brow and down the side of his face. They fight through it for the last ten seconds, and part immediately when the bell rings.

Breathing heavily, Harry drops down onto the stool in his corner as doctors rush in to check on Smith. “That round was yours,” Kevin is telling him, as someone puts ice on his shoulders and wipes the sweat of his face. “He’s going to shoot for more takedowns in the next round. Keep landing those elbows and add some leg kicks. You’ll finish him on the feet.”

Across the cage, Smith is fervently trying to convince the doctor that the blood from the cut on his brow won’t be dripping into his eyes. If his vision is obstructed, the fight can’t go on. It would count as a technical knockout, but Harry doesn’t want it to end this. He’s practically elated when the doctors give the thumbs up and clear his opponent to fight another round.

Sure enough, the second round starts with Smith attempting another takedown. This time, he scores it and works on getting into full mount. In the struggle, they end up next to the cage, and Harry tries to scramble up and walk his legs up the fence to get back to his feet. But, Smith is strong. He puts every ounce of his weight on Harry and gains full mount. From the top, he starts dropping punches that aren’t significant enough to cause any damage. Unfortunately, in the judges’ eyes, it doesn’t matter if Harry is hurt or not- they score the round based on who has the control for most of it. Knowing this, he does his best to block and makes sure to keep actively defending. Smith realizes that he isn’t going to finish the fight this way, so he changes strategies- he gives up full mount and starts going for what Harry thinks in a shoulder lock. As he changes position, Harry lifts his hips and scrambles up, resetting in the middle the canvas. Smith is gassed from trying to finish the fight, and Harry takes advantage of it. He goes forward with strikes, adding in leg kicks that throw Smith off balance. The round ends right as Smith attempts yet another takedown, and the both of them retreat back to their corners. This time, Kevin isn’t so confident that Harry won the round.

In the third round, Harry refocuses his restless energy, frustration, and acrimony into advancing forward- he’s aggressive and brazen with his strikes and combos, unafraid of what will come of it. He has five minutes to win this fight, knockout or not. It’s all in his hands. In this moment, he’s reminded of why he does this. Every muscle in his body, every single cell, is on alert and pouring out every ounce of deep-seated and buried aggression that he has.

It’s a high output round, both of them planting their feet and swinging with reckless abandon. Smith has a straight right that gets through a few times, but Harry always counters with his own combos, staying on the offense. They’re two unstoppable forces meeting immovable objects, and Harry knows that it’s a close fight when the final bell rings. He and his opponent shake hands, and Harry finally looks up at the jumbotron at himself. His face is blown up on the large screen- swollen right eye, cut cheekbone, bloody nose and mouth, and all.

He’s on edge as the judges go over their scores. He takes out his mouth guard and tries to steady his breathing, but his body is still in fight-mode, knowing it can go another two rounds if it needed to. But his head is elsewhere. He wonders where Niall is sitting in the audience, and if he’s feels that Harry did enough to win. It’s never ideal when a fight goes to decision, because there’s always a chance that the judges give the fight to the wrong person. Harry is absolutely positive that the fight is his, but when it’s this close both fighters think they’ve won.

The announcer steps back into the cage with the official results. For a minute, the crowd goes quiet. “The judges have scored this bout: 29-28 for Styles, 29-28 for Smith, and 30-27 for the winner, by split decision, Harry Styles!”

The amount of relief that washes over Harry actually gives him goosebumps. The referee raises his hand, his team rushes in to hug him, and for a second, he’s so fucking happy. A decision win was the opposite of his plan, but he’ll take it. At this point, he’ll take any win he can get. He’s on cloud 9, feeling lighter than air as the cameras close in on him.

Then, he hears it. The entire crowd is booing. They’re on their feet, jeering and shouting. If there’s any applause, it’s completely drowned out by the rest of the audience. It’s not rare that the audience disagrees with the judges scores, but it’s never happened to Harry. Without warning, his elated mood plummets. That crushing weight is back on his shoulders and the ache in his chest returns. It’s like he’s been hit by a fucking bus. Winning, and having everyone else think you’ve lost, is worst than actually losing. Harry swallows the lump in his throat as one of the commentators steps into the cage for the post-fight interview.

“That was a very close fight. How do you feel?”

Harry looks up at the jumbotron, at his stupid, teary eyes. “Um, I won the first and third, definitely… I know I'm not popular right now with this crowd, but um, I was the better fighter tonight. That's really it. Thanks to my team, my manager, and all five off my fans in the crowd.” He waves the microphone away from his face and turns, already plotting his escape. Opting out of the celebratory pictures with his team, he gets let out of the cage and makes his way backstage, the audience still booing.

All Harry can think is: _‘I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t good enough,’_ his brain playing it on repeat like the most masochistic broken record player.

Then, like it does, white hot rage starts burning under his skin.

Fuck them. Fuck all of them. His teeth dig into his lower lip, his teeth clenched hard enough for it to hurt. His vision blurs and his hands starts to shake as he packs up all of his gear.

“Hey!”

Harry doesn’t turn when he hears Niall’s voice. He can’t- he _won’t_ let Niall see him like this. Apparently, the cold shoulder is ineffective. Niall approaches anyway, patting Harry on the back. “What did I tell ya? You had it before you even stepped into the cage.”

“No one else thinks that but you,” Harry mumbles. He keeps his head down, moving the same items around in his bag. Looking Niall in the eye is out of the question right now.

“So what,” Niall says, coolly. “Fuck them.”

Harry doesn’t respond. He can’t respond. His voice is caught in his throat and everything inside him is telling him to scream. When he feels like this, wound up and misplaced, he can't be around other people. As much as he wants to stay here and be in Niall’s presence, he can’t and he won’t. It's no good for either of them. This mood, and his perpetual state of despondency and lack of emotional stability, is no good for anyone. He can’t talk to reporters, he can’t go to the post-fight press conference, and he sure as hell can’t talk to Niall.

“Listen, I need to be alone,” Harry gets out, his voice strained. “Sorry.”

He packs up the rest of his shit and leaves, not looking back. He heads to the parking structure and gets into the van. The second he shuts the door behind him, he screams. “ _FUCK_!” It comes from the deepest, darkest pits of his soul. “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!”  He screams so loud that his throat burns and he’s shaking with it. “All the work I put in and they fucking boo me?! FUCK THEM!” he cries, tears streaming down his face. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and digs his blunt fingernails into his thighs. He scratches, and scratches until the skin breaks and blood pools to the surface. It drips down his leg and onto the seat, but he doesn’t stop.

When Craig finally comes out to the parking structure to find him, Harry’s hands are covered in blood.

-

The self-deprecation doesn’t stop in Denver. Back in Mojave, Harry spends the better part of two days holed up in his apartment, binge drinking, ignoring calls, and sitting at his computer in his dark room, seeking out the worst possible shit about himself. After fight nights, internet forums and YouTube comments seem to be the perfect place to look if you want to beat yourself up and make yourself feel 100 times worse.

The general consensus, from the internet hivemind, is that Harry didn’t deserve to win his last fight. He’s washed up. Boring. Not worth watching. The company should let him go, his managers should fire him, and he should try his luck in the amatuer circuit.

_’if smith was a better wrestler, he would have ended that fight on the ground’_

_‘Styles has no ground game. That's the truth.’_

_‘he used to be more exciting, now he's just squeaking by’_

_‘Remember when styles could knock people out with head kicks? Those were the good days’_

_‘He hasn’t been the same since he fucked that guy up at the bar for no reason.’_

Harry reads until his eyes hurt and the words jumble together. The agitation faded long ago and has since been replaced with self-pity and helplessness that sinks in and sticks to his bones. The final straw, the one that finally breaks him is when Craig calls him on the Tuesday evening after his fight. “Bad news,” he starts, not one to beat around the bush. “We lost another sponsorship.”

 _We._ As if it’s Craig’s fault that brands don’t want to be associated with Harry. Apparently, his little ‘freak out’ at the weigh-ins wasn’t forgotten. He’s lucky he wasn’t fined, but he knew it would come back to bite him in the ass in some way or another. It doesn’t matter that he won the fight, bad behavior is bad for business.

The moment Harry hangs up the phone, he shuts his computer and heads to his kitchen. Not surprisingly, the cupboards are dry. There are empty bottles littering his bedroom floor and crowding the kitchen counters. Harry goes back to his room, pulls on a pair of jeans and grabs his keys. A short, drunken drive and ten minutes later, he’s sitting at the bar alone with a drink in hand. He doesn’t have to be back at the gym until early Friday, and he plans on spending the rest of his time off with a certain level of alcohol in his system. He’ll pay for it later, he knows, but that’s for future-Harry to worry about. There’s a sliver of logic in him, telling him that this isn’t a great idea, especially considering he’s been inebriated for about 48 hours already. Despite this, his desire to bury every negative feeling and mask it with temporary, artificial bliss in the form of being shitfaced is what wins out.

On his third drink, Harry is swaying in his seat and there’s a guy, sitting a few seats away that keeps looking Harry’s way. He either wants to fuck or fight, and Harry doesn’t think he’s very cute at all, so that only leaves one option.

“Hey.”

The guy looks and Harry gives him the finger. “Take a fucking picture.”

“Listen, I’m gonna have to cut you off,” the bartender says then, to which Harry groans. “You got a ride home? Because I’d hate for you to get behind the wheel at all tonight.”

“Oh fuck off,” Harry rolls his eyes and tosses back his last shot. He has half a beer left as least. Maybe he’ll go to a liquor store after this, spend a few bucks on a pint and call it a night.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?” Harry turns a little too quickly and almost falls backwards off his stool. When he sees Niall walking in, he can’t help the grin that plasters itself on his face. They haven’t seen each other since Harry’s fight, and this sure is a treat. “Hey, you. Here to drink?”

“Maybe a little,” Niall says, coming to stand next to Harry’s seat. “Mostly here to eat. This place makes the best cheese steak sandwich I’ve ever had.”

“Thought you cooked at home,” Harry says.

Nial shrugs. “Sometimes I indulge.”

Everything he says and does is lovely, Harry thinks. “Then let’s indulge together,” Harry suggests. “We’ll get a table.” Harry spins around and moves to get out of the barstool. Looking down, the floor seems ten feet away. Suddenly, he’s falling forward and Niall is catching him in a hug. Harry leans into it, sticking his nose in the crook of Niall’s neck to take a whiff because why the fuck not?

“Whoa.” Niall brings his hands to Harry’s ribs to steady him. When he steps back, Harry is reluctant to move away.

“You smell so good, wow.” Earthy and natural, like pure cedarwood with a light flowery scent underneath it. It’s chamomile, Harry decides, after taking another whiff. It makes his head spin, in a good way. “Truly amazing,” he says, straightening up to take another swig of beer.

“Think you’ve had enough?” Niall asks, either concerned or horrified. It’s hard to tell.

“Yeah, was on my way out before you walked in.” Harry pats his pockets for his keys.

“Oh no,” Niall says, “you’re not driving are you?”

“Was planning on it,” Harry responds, then sees the shock on Niall's face. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. It’s like one long road to my house. Easy peasy.” After a minute, Harry wrestles his keys from his pocket and holds them up in victory. With some kind of superhuman speed, Niall reaches out and snatches the keys from Harry’s fingers.

Harry frowns. “ _HEY._ ”

“Not happening,” Niall replies, tucking the keys into his back pocket. “I walked here, but I can walk you back to your place if you want. You can come back and get your car when you’re sober. Or, if you want I can drive your car.”

“Then how will you get back home?”

“I’ll walk back,” Niall answers. “Where do you live?”

“Several miles that way,” Harry points in a nondescript direction.

“Alright, alright,” Niall grabs Harry’s wrist and puts his arm down. “Let me walk you to my apartment then?”

Harry blinks. “Okay. What about your cheese steak?” he asks, because clearly, his priorities are in check.

Niall shakes his head and laughs, his eyes doing that beautiful shining thing they do. “It’ll be here tomorrow.”

Outside, Niall snakes an arm around Harry’s waist to hold him steady. It isn’t the perfect situation, certainly not how he imagined Niall would hold him like this, but Harry will take it. They start their walk at a drudgening pace, Harry’s feet heavy and clumsy.

Niall is close enough that Harry can hear him breathing. Close enough that Harry can make out every small wrinkle on his face. He has a slight furrow to his brow, the same pink flush to his cheeks, and his facial hair is growing in dark and thick. Harry leans in and whispers in his ear, “You're actually really handsome.”

Niall chuckles, and Harry definitely catches the way his cheeks redden even more. “You're not too bad yourself.”

Satisfied, Harry turns his head to look forward again but now it’s too heavy to hold up. So, he looks down at the pavement and their dragging feet. “Whoops, my shoes untied.”

Harry breaks free of Niall’s grasp and leans forward- unfortunately, he keeps leaning forward until both hands are braced on the ground.

“Got it?” Niall questions, from somewhere above Harry’s line of sight.

“Got it,”  Harry affirms. He lifts one hand to push himself up, and immediately loses his balance. “Don’t got it.” He topples over onto his side and huffs out a laugh. The concrete is cold on his face.

“Oh no,” Niall says, putting a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.

“Might be a little drunk,” Harry admits, laughter bubbling up in his chest as well.

“Just a little?” Niall stands over Harry and grabs both of his hands, pulling him up with ease. Then, with no protest from Harry, Niall picks him up into a bridal carry. “This okay?”

Harry wraps his arms around Niall’s shoulders. “More than okay.”

Niall carries him down the block, with no signs of breaking a sweat. “Wow, you’re so strong,” Harry says, not even caring that he sounds horny and desperate. “This is amazing.”

“Yep,” Niall says, like it’s really no big deal that he’s carrying Harry like he weighs ten pounds. “I don’t train 30 something hours a week for nothing.”

“You really know how to sweep a guy off his feet,” Harry quips. Niall laughs, which makes Harry go all warm inside. It satisfies him enough to keep talking. “I’d let you pick me up any day.”

“Is that right?” Niall glances down at him and Harry swoons. The night sky, with all its light pollution, illuminates him from above.

“Damn right,” Harry tells him, with as much conviction as he can muster.

Niall smirks. “Well, just let me know when you need it and I’ll drop everything.”

To that, Harry can only respond with a smile so wide he’s sure he looks deranged.

“We’re almost there.” Niall rounds the corner and puts Harry down, letting him brace himself on a metal gate in front of the building. He watches as Niall slides his keycard and lets them into the apartment complex. “Sorry to break it to you, but I’m not carrying you up the stairs.”

Somehow, Harry manages to make it up the stairs on his own, but does trip over the threshold of Niall’s apartment door, and falls face first onto plush white carpet. “Holy shit, I’m wasted,” he mumbles, his mouth full of carpet. Niall helps him up and onto the couch and Harry sprawls out onto his back, letting Niall take off his shoes. “How sweet of you.”

Niall stands up and leaves the room, leaving Harry reaching after him. “Where ya going?” Thankfully, he returns a minute later with a pillow.

“Hope this is okay,” he says, handing it over.

Harry takes it, maybe a little too eagerly, and hugs it in his arms. “This smells like you,” he says, not initially meaning to say it out loud, “it’s nice, can I keep it?”

Niall just stands there and smiles at him.

“You’re literally my prince charming,” Harry blurts out. He's gotta say it, whether he's drunk or not. Niall is too sweet and perfect for him to not know it.

Niall makes a face that’s a mixed of amused and puzzled, his head tilting to the side. “Thanks?”

“A knight in shining armor,” Harry continues. “Only you wear flannel and blue jeans.”

Niall holds up his hand to stop Harry from going on, but his smile remains. “Okay, okay I get it. You should get some rest.” He reaches over Harry and pulls the throw blanket off the top of the couch, shaking it out to lay over Harry’s legs.

Harry nods. “Only because you told me to.”

“Goodnight,” Niall says, but doesn’t move from his spot. His smile fades and a little sigh leaves his lips.

“What?” Harry wonders, out loud. “Did I say something?”

Niall shakes his head. He starts to speak, but stops himself.

Harry stares up at him, at his silhouette in the dimly-lit room. He’s so beautiful- it radiates from his mere presence.

“I could kiss you right now,” Harry mutters, his heart racing. “That's how handsome and lovely you are. You're too good. Too pure. I'm just a fucking- troll person. But you… you’re made of stars and the angels made you in their image...” Harry trails off, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Goodnight,” he hears Niall repeat, and then, even quieter, “Holy shit.”

-

There’s bacon cooking somewhere, and the scent immediately gives Harry a more painful headache. A familiar song is playing softly from some corner of the room. After a few minutes, Harry recognizes it and groans.

“I fucking hate The Eagles.” He rolls over onto his back and sits up, letting reality set in.

What he can piece together is that last night he got too fucked up, Niall showed up, and somehow he ended up here...in Niall’s apartment. He’s in Niall’s apartment. He slept on Niall’s couch. _Shit_ , he thinks. Before he can start racking his brain for more details, he hears Niall’s voice behind him.

“Say that again and I’m kicking your ass out.”

Harry turns and sees Niall standing at the stove in his little kitchenette. “Oh.”

“Morning sunshine,” Niall greets, his eyes on the frying pan.

“Morning.” Harry pulls his fingers through his hair, flattening it on the sides. “I take it I went a little overboard last night.”

Niall whistles. “Oh boy. That’s an understatement. You were _gone_.”

“Ugh, sorry,” Harry massages his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. If he doesn’t look at him, he won’t feel as awkward. “How embarrassing was I?”

“That depends. What do you consider embarrassing?”

That’s all the trigger Harry needs for some of the details to come flooding back. He remembers Niall carrying him in his arms like a baby, and to be quite honest, he wants to jump out of the fucking window. He thinks he could survive the fall. And if not? Oh well.  

“...Oh no.”

Niall laughs, loud and unrestricted. “It was fine, really. You fell. I carried you. You called me your prince charming and a knight in shining armor, among other things.”

“...Oh no,” Harry repeats, putting his head in his hands.

“Eloquent,” Niall comments. “Breakfast?”

Harry stands up, finally turning to look at him fully. His hair is damp, falling over his eyebrows, and he’s wearing gym shorts and loose t-shirt. Still perfect, unfortunately. “Ugh, no thanks. Thinking about food right now makes me want to throw up.”

Niall shrugs. “More for me.”

“Do you have tylenol? Or anything this will kill this headache?” Harry asks, stretching his arms above his head. The couch is comfortable, but no one ever wakes up from a drunken slumber without sore muscles. Frankly, there’s still some residual muscle tension from his fight.

“Yeah, hall bathroom.” Niall motions to the hall, and Harry goes, mumbling a thank you.

Harry looks at his sorry ass reflection in the bathroom mirror, at his black eye that doesn’t seem to be letting up and his stupid fucking hair that he’ll probably shave if it doesn’t start acting right. “Get your shit together,” he tells himself, and opens the medicine cabinet. There’s nothing inside but razors and what Harry believes are bottles of essential oils. Out of curiosity, he takes one out, unscrews the cap, and sniffs it. Chamomile.

On the shelf over the toilet, Harry spots a case of pill bottles and pulls it out, deciding to look there. In his search to find tylenol, he finds a shitton of vitamins and supplements. He also finds three bottles from a pharmacy, with Niall’s name printed on each label.

Sadly, Harry has been on enough cocktails of meds to recognize what each of them are. One is definitely a sleeping pill Harry was on when he was 19, one is an antidepressant he’s all too familiar with, and the other is possibly for anxiety.

It sort of stuns Harry to see. He stands there, holding the bottles, and digs through every conversation, every interaction, every observation about Niall that he has archived in his brain. Niall did mention that he’s gone to therapy before, but this is just- it’s _alarming_ , is what it is. In Harry’s eyes, Niall is the most well adjusted and happy-go-lucky person he’s ever met. He can’t imagine him needing all of this shit. This is for people like Harry, people who are consumed by their afflictions. But Niall? There's no way.

As Harry puts the bottles back into their space, he remembers that he has an empty pill bottle in his own bedside drawer. Antidepressants that ran out six months ago, ones that he keeps ‘forgetting’ to refill.

It isn’t until Harry is walking back out into the living room that he realizes he never even found the tylenol.

“You should at least stay for coffee,” Niall insists, as Harry puts on his shoes. “I was on my way out in a bit anyway, so I could drop you off at your car.”

Harry takes one look at the hopeful twinkle in Niall’s eyes and has to say yes. He takes a seat at the tiny kitchen table and watches Niall start a fresh pot of coffee. It does smell good he has to admit, and for a second he can forget the reason he’s here. For a second, he can pretend he rolled out of Niall’s bed with kiss swollen lips instead of rolling off the couch with a pounding headache.

Niall pours one cup of coffee and sets it on the table. “Sugar? Milk?”

“No thanks,” Harry says, reaching for the mug.

Niall scrunches up his nose, and brings his plate of food to the table.

“I see you judging me,” Harry says. “Let me guess, you’re one of those people who puts a pound of sweetner in their coffee.”

Niall sits down and starts in on his french toast. Harry watches him eat, finding it adorable that Niall has made a full breakfast for himself. “Actually, I’m one of those people who doesn’t drink coffee at all. Caffeine makes me want to jump out of my skin, even a little of it.”

Harry blinks, letting the steam of his coffee kiss the tip of his nose. “...then why do you have a coffee maker?”

“For other people when they come over,” Niall answers, pouring syrup over his food.

Harry takes a sip of his coffee. It’s the best he’s ever tasted, which has everything to do with his hangover and nothing to do with the fact that Niall made it. “Do you have a lot of people coming over?”

Niall squints at him, chewing slowly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

A silence falls between them, and Harry can tell that there’s a questions on the tip of Niall’s tongue.

“So,” Niall finally says, clearing his throat. “About dinner.”

Harry perks up, bringing the mug to his lips. “Dinner?”

“Our date,” Niall replies, easily, his eyes on his plate. “I figure now is as good as any time to ask.”  

Harry puts his mug down. “You still wanna hang out with me? I thought seeing me shitfaced would be a dealbreaker.”

“No.” Niall grins. “It was sort of endearing.”

“Don’t flatter me.”

“Okay, so how’s Friday sound?” Niall asks, no fuss about it. “I have a short morning session and then I, um, have therapy in the afternoon but I’ll be free that night.”

“Sure,” Harry says, because he’s already embarrassed himself enough. There’s nothing clever or cute on the tip of his tongue, so he just nods. Also, he’s positive that he was never going to grow the balls to ask Niall first.

“Good,” Niall says, getting up to clear his plate. He smiles at Harry over his shoulder. “It’s a date.”

“A date,” Harry repeats, his heart stuttering in his chest. “So, what’s on the menu?”

“Umm,” Niall leans against the counter, and crosses his arms. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far. I’ll make whatever you want, just let me know. You’re not cutting weight anymore so the sky’s the limit.”

Harry grins, “Five course meal.”

“Okay.” Niall smirks, and shrugs his shoulders.  “I might need to go shopping, but I think I can manage that...any specific requests for dessert?”

With his mug halfway to his lips, Harry pauses. He drags his gaze down Niall’s body, over his broad shoulders, toned biceps, thick thighs, and strong calves, and back up again.

“I don’t think so,” Harry answers, bringing the mug the rest of the way up. “But I am wondering how you can eat what you do and as much as you do, and still stay on weight.”

“Being obsessive,” Niall says with a laugh. He turns to start putting his dishes in the sink. “Basically lots of careful planning and making sure everything I eat fits into my macros. Not as fun as it looks.”

Harry gets up and sets his mug in the sink. “Let me help you.”

“Nope.” Niall swats Harry's hand away and bumps him with his hip, sending Harry back a few steps. “I got it.”

“I feel bad for making you literally carry me home,” Harry says.

“Like I said, it wasn't so bad.” Niall washes, rinses, and dries Harry's mug and then turns to him. He takes a step closer and reaches over Harry's head to put the mug in the cupboard. When he puts his hand down on the counter, his fingers brush Harry's. “But if you feel that terrible...you can always make it up to me.”

Harry doesn't move his hand, as much as he probably should. He should run. He's in over his head. What would someone like Niall want with Harry anyway? “Well...what do you have in mind?”

There are a few things Harry has in mind, and two of them involve being on his knees. The other involves him being bent over the kitchen counter, with Niall-

“I have to think about it.” Niall takes a step back now, grabbing his keys from a bowl on the counter. He's red from the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “How about we play it by ear,” he says. “Ready to go?”

“Right,” Harry says, reeling his filthy thoughts back in. “Let's go.”

Niall takes Harry back to the bar, pulling into the lot next to Harry's car.

“Thanks,” Harry says, taking off his seat belt. “Again I'm sorry I was such an idiot last night.”

“I was thinking about your fight,” Niall says, stopping Harry in his tracks. “and for what it's worth, I think it should have been a unanimous decision.”

Harry settles back in his seat. “You really think so? Or are you just bullshitting me?”

Niall smirks, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t bullshit you.”

When Harry gets in his car, he catches a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. As awful as he feels, he can’t wipe the smile off his face.


	3. Round Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> round 3 begins with pretty triggering content. feel free to skip it. :) also this round has more dialogue than round 1 and 2 combined probably.

Red. Darker than what Harry expected, spilling out from the long, thin, cut on his forearm. It’s almost black, pouring steadily onto the kitchen floor. It fills the creases and lines in his palm, dripping off his fingertips. It pools beneath his feet, sliding in between his toes and crawling into the cracks in the tile. A sense of calm wraps around him as the blood trickles down his arm and covers every inch of the skin. Then there’s a pressure on his neck, squeezing tight. He reaches up to touch and the rough fibers of a rope bite at his fingers. Turning, he sees the rope, pulled taut and leading into the hallway. Suddenly, the rope tugs him backwards and he loses footing. On his back, he’s dragged through the pool of blood, through the hall, and into his bedroom. With his heart racing, he tries to scramble up but the pull of the rope is relentless. The rope lifts him up, triple-knotted around the ceiling fan. He kicks his legs, gasping for air as his toes leave the floor. Blood still drips steadily from his arm, staining the carpet below him. The edges of his vision go blurry and white, as the rope pulls tighter, and tighter around his neck...

Harry lurches out of bed, falling to his knees on the floor. His throat burns as he wheezes and heaves. “Fuck,” he breathes, putting a hand on his neck. His pulse is erratic, pounding incessantly in his palm.

He climbs back into bed, sweat cooling on his forehead. Finding his phone lost in the tangled sheets, he realizes that it’s almost nine in the morning. There are two texts from Kevin, asking where he is. As he stares at his phone, a text from Niall pops up. 

‘ _good morning! ready for tonight?_ 😉’

Harry groans and throws himself onto his back. “ _ Fuck _ .” 

After tossing and turning last night until four AM, he gave up and chased a dose of nyquil with two shots of whiskey to force his body to relax. Back in bed, he ended up lying awake for three more hours before crashing. 

Now, he’s facing the aftermath of the worst nightmare he’s had in months, and the last thing he wants to do is leave the house and pretend to be okay. Even if it means he gets to see Niall’s face. Getting up, eating breakfast, and picking out clothes to wear for a  _ date _ feels like too much when it’s taking everything in him not to think about dying. The thoughts and images burn themselves into the back of his eyelids and before he knows it, he’s comfortable. Suddenly, the idea of searching his apartment for something to hang himself with doesn’t sound so awful. He’ll dwell on it for hours, he knows, and he won’t be able to focus on anything until he gets over it or until something else distracts him enough. When he gets like this, it’s dangerous to be alone. 

The one thing he should do is the one thing he can’t. There’s only one person in town that Harry can call a friend. But it’s not exactly a great idea to be around people when all he can do is think about slicing his arm open and bleeding out in the kitchen. Harry will be stuck in bed for another day at least, and there’s no way in hell he’s letting Niall see that pathetic scene. 

Harry pulls the blanket over his head and unlocks his phone. He spends a few moments hovering over Niall’s contact, then finally bites the bullet and presses ‘call.’

“Hey, good morning! Wasn’t expecting a call from you so early.”

“Good morning,” Harry responds. “Just woke up, actually.”

“And the first person you call is me? I’m flattered.”

“Yeah, so…,” Harry chews his lip and forces the next words out before he swallows them down forever. “I know it’s last minute but I think I need to cancel our date.” 

“Oh…,” the drop in his tone is all too noticeable, and it makes Harry’s heart sink. “Did something happen?” 

“Well to be honest, I woke up like ten minutes ago and I feel like complete shit,” Harry sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’ve only slept for like five hours in the past 24 and I have a headache so bad it hurts to open my eyes. So, I’m not sure I’d be very good company.” 

“You’re always good company,” Niall responds, easily. 

Harry just smiles, not sure what he can say to follow that. 

“Think you’re getting sick?” Niall asks. “I can bring you soup.” 

“I’m not getting sick,” Harry sighs again, this time for a different reason, and his cheeks go warm. “That’s a kind offer though, even though you sound like my mother.” 

“I can't help that I'm a very maternal person,” Niall says. Harry chuckles and Niall continues. “ _ What _ ? Don't laugh. I'll go over there right now and tuck you in. Don't test me.” 

Harry turns and feels the empty side of his bed. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Depends on how you feel about it.” 

Harry guess that Niall is sitting in his kitchen about now, eating his breakfast alone. Harry wishes he was there, then imagines Niall here with him, under the covers. “Well, it's been awhile since I've been tucked in.” 

“Oh, that's a  _ shame _ ,” Niall coos, in a faux sweet voice. “How ever will you sleep if you aren't tucked in?” 

This flirting thing, doesn’t usually come natural to Harry. But, he finds it comes easier with Niall. He brings it out of Harry, making it seem like it's his first language. “I don’t know,” he says, “maybe that’s why I have such fucked up dreams. Because you’re not here to tuck me in.” 

Niall is quiet for a minute, long enough for Harry to think he's said something wrong. “You have nightmares?”

“Yeah,” Harry admits. “Pretty bad ones.” 

Again, Niall is quiet. This time for just a beat longer. “Sometimes,” he starts, his voice suddenly more serious. “I have these bouts of restlessness so bad that I’ll be awake for like 48 hours straight and I’ll be so tired, but I can’t sleep because I just  _ know _ that I’m gonna have a bad dream, or a nightmare. And it just- fucks me up.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, so in a way, I know how you feel right now,” Niall says. “But you know what helps me sometimes?”

“What?” Harry asks, possibly a little too eager. He’ll do anything to not feel like this, and he supposes anything Niall comes up with is better than drinking himself to sleep.

“Are your eyes closed?” 

“They are.” 

“Okay, so answer these four questions. You don’t have to say the answers out loud, if you don’t want to, but it might help visualize it,” Niall explains. “Ready?”

“Sure,” Harry says, rolling onto his back. 

“Clear your mind,” Niall starts. “Which isn’t easy, I know. But, try and imagine you're in a completely white room. Now, visualize a space you’d want to be in. This is a space that makes you feel good. Are you inside or outside?” 

Harry thinks about himself in a room, sitting on the edge of a bed. “Inside.” 

“Is it quiet or is there noise?” 

There’s no noise, just the sound of his own pulse and steady breathing. “It's quiet.” 

“Is it dark or bright?” 

The walls are painted yellow, and there’s light streaming in from the windows. “It's bright.” 

“Are you alone or with other people?” 

Harry isn’t alone, another pulse beats in time with his. “With other people.” 

Niall takes a full minute before he asks the next question, the line going completely silent. “With multiple or just one?” 

Harry pauses, visualizing Niall sitting next to him, their fingers intertwined. “Just one.”

“Think about what it smells like, what the temperature is like,” Niall says, “and how you feel now. Try and remember this and come back to it.” 

Niall's nose in brushing against the crook of Harry's neck and the warmth radiates off his skin. The chamomile scent is strong... 

“Harry?” Niall voice interrupts Harry’s fantasy, and Harry just hums in response. “Just wanted to let you know, that if I was there, I'd totally tuck you in.” 

Harry lets himself laugh, though the words give him goosebumps. “Thanks.” 

“I’m gonna let you go. You should try and get some rest,” Niall says, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there in the afternoon,” Harry confirms. “Don’t think I’ll be up earlier than noon.”

“Well,” Niall says, and Harry can practically hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

With that, Harry hangs up. He holds his phone to his chest, like some lovestruck teenager, and hopes to god- or whoever is listening- that he can keep feeling this way. 

Harry wakes up to a text first thing in the morning. It’s Niall, of course, because Harry is just that lucky apparently. 

_ ‘good morning!’ _

Harry sits up, propping up some pillows behind his back. He might as well start waking up now, instead of staying in bed like some sort of useless lump until noon.  _ ‘Morning !! _ ’

Niall texts back right away. ‘ _ Love the enthusiasm lol’ _

‘ _ sometimes I try’ _ Harry types, a smile finding its way to his lips. 

Niall doesn’t respond immediately, which sends Harry’s heart racing. “Calm the fuck down,” he tells himself, watching the little ‘typing’ indicator on the bottom on the screen. When Niall’s text finally comes through, Harry’s heart drops. 

‘ _ so… I was thinking maybe we should put some things on hold. not forever, of course. just until we’re both sure we’re not rushing into anything _ .’ 

“What the fuck,” Harry mumbles, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.  _ ‘oh. I never thought we were rushing. I wouldn’t have said yes otherwise.’  _

_ ‘Good to hear. But, how does this sound?... we reschedule our date until after my fight. I have all this press shit to do anyway and cutting weight and you know how it is.’  _

_ ‘after your fight? That’s in 3 weeks.’  _

_ ‘Delayed gratification? Lol we’ll still see each other i promise’  _

Harry grins, swooning over the ‘promise.’  _ ‘...fine. But this date better be fucking amazing :)’  _

_ ‘I can’t make any promises about that. see you later. (and in three weeks of course)’ _

Harry gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. He’s grinning in the mirror at himself the entire time, and still grinning when he pours himself a bowl of stale cereal. By the time he gets in his car to head to the gym, his cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. As he walks into the air conditioned space, his eyes find Niall immediately. Niall is already looking at him, his eyes shining in that absolutely angelic way they do. Harry walks to him, wordlessly, and takes the treadmill to his right. 

“You okay?” Niall asks, slowing to a jog.

Harry nods, his face beating up. He starts the treadmill and matches Niall's pace. “Pretty good.”

Niall nods back, chewing his lip. “Good.”

-

The next few weeks have Harry on edge. His sleep hasn’t improved much, but at least he can get to sleep. Two hours a night for the past week isn’t exactly quality, and it shows. Dark circles stain his under eyes and he starts to feel that familiar weight on his shoulders. When he does manage to sleep longer than a few hours, the nightmares wake him up. This time, there are recurring images of his bloodied fists and broken teeth…

He hasn’t touched alcohol in a week, which is quite the feat for him, but the nightmares persist and his mood doesn’t change. That ‘left-of-center’ feeling envelops him again, despite the fact that Niall is usually around in the gym and just a glance in his direction makes Harry’s chest burst with affection. It’s strange, being on the precipice of something new and possibly amazing, and simultaneously battling the persistent demons that live inside him- the ones that keep telling him to pick up a knife to test a blade. He tries to combat them by doing the only thing he knows how, pushing himself harder than he ever had before. Instead of going home and punishing himself with social media and MMA forums, he throws himself into writing, and he drags himself out of bed early to train until he’s numb.

Another thing that’s eating at him is that despite winning his last fight, and working harder than ever, Craig hasn’t contacted Harry about any new fight contracts. The interim lightweight belt is up for grabs, and Harry has his eye on it. Though with the way things are going, he doubt he'll get a shot. He understands that it takes some time for things to develop, but there has been complete silence on Craig’s end. It drives Harry deeper into the hole he can never seem to scratch his way out of. 

He’ll make his next fight better, he promises himself. He’ll be better. He’ll be worth something. He’ll keep going through the motions and hoping for the best. With fighting, with his life in general. With Niall.

Niall has been quiet, and a little-  _ skittish  _ even. Harry notices it and can’t help but ruminate on it, but he tries not to call attention to it. They’ve still been talking, but not nearly as much as Harry has become accustomed to. It's starting to worry him but shoves the thoughts down and buries them, trying not to attribute it to something he did or said. As he tires his arms out with bicep curls, he replays all of their recent conversations in his head. When Harry got in earlier, they talked for about 60 seconds about how busy Niall has been, before he was whisked away by his manager. Things seemed fine enough, though Niall seemed to have less energy than usual. But neither of them have mentioned their date since deciding to postpone it, and Harry has to admit that scares the shit out of him. 

It’s just bad timing, he tells himself. The training before a five round championship fight is brutal, and every ounce of your energy is poured into it- you don’t have time for anything else. Harry recalls his run at the lightweight title, and how during his training he cried himself to sleep every night for nine days straight. Harry understands the stress, nerves, and fatigue that gets to people right before the fight, especially when cutting weight has everything fuzzy around the edges and your team is dragging you to meetings and press appearances. It’s clear that Niall is struggling with this being his very first title fight, and it's hard to witness because there isn't much anyone can do about it. This is the fight game, and they all signed up for it. If Harry could, he would put his apprehension aside, try not to seem as socially inept as he is, and extend a helping hand. He isn't sure what kind of comfort he could offer anyone, considering how little he can offer himself, but he swears that the entire world feels off-kilter when Niall isn’t smiling.

“Hey, do you know if Niall left already?” Liam appears at Harry’s side, picking up a set of weights. “I think his coach is looking for him.”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, scanning the gym through the room's glass windows. Niall is nowhere to be seen, which probably means he slipped out early. “I saw him like thirty minutes ago but not since then.”

Liam picks up the 60 pound dumbbells, then goans and puts them back immediately. He picks up the 50 pound set instead, and says. “Don’t judge me. I’m sore.”

Harry chuckles, shaking his head. “No judgement here.”

Liam starts to do his reps, walking over to the mirror to look at himself. “I think Niall will pull it together by tomorrow. I can hope, at least.”

“Is he, like…,” Harry trails off, turning to face the mirror. “Is he okay?”

“Stressed as hell,” Liam huffs, lifting the weights over his head. “I figured you would have known that already.” 

Harry puts his dumbbells down and sits on a weight bench. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, he talks to you more than anyone.”

Harry uses his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. In his reflection, he has the stupidest smile on his face. “Does he really?” 

Liam hums. “Louis says it’s unhealthy. But I think he’s jealous because he thinks you’re stealing his best friend from him.”  

“Ridiculous,” Harry laughs. “We’ve only hung out a couple of times.” 

Liam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but when he’s here, he only talks to you. And when he talks to us, all he  _ talks about _ is you.” 

Harry's brows raise. “Yeah?” 

“Oh yeah.” 

“What does he say?” Harry asks, because it doesn't hurt to try.

“Nice try,” Liam says, catching on immediately. He grunts as he starts on his third set of reps. “Saw him yesterday. He was freaking out about having to fly tomorrow. And I thought, maybe Harry’ll be there to hold his hand.”

Harry grins, his face heating up at the idea.

Liam laughs and shakes his head. “You are coming right? Gotta be there to support our boy and watch him win.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, standing up. “Niall mentioned it last week so I made sure to get a ticket.”

“Of course he did,” Liam drops his weights and pats Harry on the back. “It just wouldn't be the same without you.”

As Harry leaves the weight room, he runs into Louis. Louis greets him with a wide smile and a hard smack on the shoulder. Before they part, Louis stops him.

“Hey, when you see Niall can you tell him his  _ best friend _ misses him and that it would be nice if he didn’t choose the new guy over me?” 

“Very funny,” Harry deadpans.

Louis holds up a hand in defense. “I’m mostly kidding. I actually hope that when you two finally take your heads out of your asses and get together, you give each other the best dick either of you have ever had.” 

“You're the worst,” Harry says, yet he has to fight to keep from laughing.

“I'm speaking it into existence, or something,” Louis says, backing away. “By the way, Niall has been running from his team all day so if you see him, tell him Dan is pissed.”

The locker room has mostly cleared out by the time Harry goes in to shower. There's water running from one of the stalls, and one guy packing up his bag at his locker. Harry waits for him to leave before he strips down to his boxers, sighing in relief at peeling the sweaty clothes off his body. He grabs a towel and walks down the aisle of showers, headed for the last one since it's usually the cleanest. As he walks past the stall with the water running, he notices that the door is ajar. Something about it unsettles him, and stops him in his tracks. 

There’s a dark curtain behind the opaque glass, but it’s only pulled halfway closed. Harry steps closer, and through the steamed up glass he sees the unmistakable silhouette of Niall sitting on shower floor. 

Harry freezes, though all of the alarm bells in his head are ringing. Unsure what to do, he knocks gently on the door. “You okay?” When he gets no answer in return, an uneasy feeling floods him. 

“Hey,” he says, softly, before pulling the door open and the curtain aside. 

Harry’s heart drops at the sight of him. Niall is sitting, both knees pulled up to his chest, one hand curled into a fist, pressing into the bridge of his nose, and the other over his heart. His shoulders rise and fall with his loud, heaving breaths and his entire body is trembling. He’s sitting under the stream of water, unfazed by his wet hair and soaked shorts. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his jaw clenches as he tries to steady his breath.

After a few seconds of hesitation, Harry steps in and turns the shower off. For a second, Harry doesn’t think Niall has realizes he’s there, but then he hears Niall’s shaky voice through his gasps. “Hey,” he says, reaching out blindly, one hand still over his face. He grabs Harry by the wrist and tugs, pulling him closer.

Harry drops down onto the wet floor with him, crossing his legs to fit in the small space. “Are you okay?” he asks, stupidly.

Niall shakes his head, still struggling to catch his breath. “My hands,” he manages to say. “Can’t feel them.”

Without thinking, Harry takes both of Niall’s hands in his and squeezes. The muscles are tight and cramped, unresponsive to Harry’s touch. Niall finally lifts his head and reveals his face- his bloodshot and teary eyes. He’s looking at Harry like he’s seeing him for the first time, his brow furrowing. He blinks, and looks around at the shower. 

“Shit,” he chokes out, “is this real?” Tears start to fall from his eyes, rolling down his cheeks. 

Harry nods, squeezing his cold hands harder.

Still trembling, Niall leans into him, dropping his head on Harry’s shoulder. Harry wraps both arms around him, pulling him into an embrace. “You’re okay. You’re fine,” Harry says, his lips against the shell of Niall’s ear. Harry holds Niall tight, letting him tremble against his chest and hyperventilate into the crook of his neck. “You’re okay,” he repeats, over and over, until he starts to feel Niall relax against him. 

After a while, his breathing evens out. With his hands pressed to Niall’s back, Harry can feel Niall’s pulse racing and it matches his own erratic heartbeat. He doesn’t move until Niall does, reluctantly releasing him. Niall sits back and takes a deep breath, looking up at Harry’s eyes. 

Harry dares to reach out and wipe a tear from Niall’s face. 

Niall flinches back, his face contorting into an anguished expression. “Fuck,” he mutters, scrambling to his feet. “I need to- I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he says, and all but runs out of the shower. 

“Shit,” Harry groans and drops his head back against the hard tile. “Shit, shit, shit.” Somewhat put-out, he picks himself up and turns the shower back on, letting the water pour over his head.

-

Harry pushes past a group of people, hiking his backpack up on his shoulders and picking up his pace. Oversleeping and running late is one of his few talents, he realizes, as he hurries to get to his terminal. He rushes through the line to check his luggage, and takes the stairs two steps at a time to get to the security checkpoint. Luckily, there’s not a huge line- meaning there’s less than 100 people- and he gets through the metal detector quickly. Having slept for approximately four hours last night, he’s feeling better than usual but now he’s running through the airport with his shoes untied, trying to get to his gate on time. If he misses this flight, there are others he can take. But, he promised himself he’d be here for Niall, especially after seeing him yesterday.

He can’t stop thinking of Niall’s face- of how detached he looked before he crumbled in Harry’s arms. Harry would hold him forever if he allowed it. 

Harry is panting by the time he boards the plane, shrugging his backpack off his shoulders. Towards the back, he sees where Liam, Louis, and Niall are sitting, and his own empty seat two rows up. Niall is seated in the middle, wearing headphones and an eye mask. His mouth is open and he’s snoring, much to Louis’ delight. Louis takes a selfie with Niall’s sleeping form. “For Instagram,” he explains, once he sees Harry. 

“Switch seats with me,” Harry tells him.

Louis frowns. “No fucking way. I got the window seat.”

“So? Move.”

“Fine!” Louis groans, gathering his bag. “You’re lucky I want you two together so bad.” 

As he sidles out into the aisle, he makes his final plea. “Li, switch seats with him. I don’t wanna move up there. I fucking hate the middle seat.”

“Fuck no,” Liam says, “I paid for my aisle seat and I’m staying.”

Harry settles into the window seat, mumbling a greeting to Liam.

“He’s sedated,” Liam explains, motioning to Niall.

Harry looks at Niall now, smiling at his soft snores. “The flight is literally only an hour.”

Liam shrugs. “It’s the only way he’ll board.”

“Right,” Harry says, sitting back. Liam leans forward and gives Harry a look, nodding at Niall’s hand on the armrest. Harry frowns. “What?”

“Hold his hand, dumbass.”

“Oh.” Harry looks at Niall’s hand for about a full minute before he places his on top. Niall’s hand is warm and still under Harry’s palm, the simple touch enough to make Harry’s stomach do backflips. He takes Niall’s hand fully and slots their fingers together, waiting with bated breath to see if he’ll wake up. 

Sure enough, Niall's hand twitches and he turns his head. With the other hand, he lifts his sleep mask and looks at Harry, giving him a drowsy smile. “Hey,” he says, his voice rough and slightly slurred. “You made it.” 

“I did,” Harry says, giving Niall’s hand a squeeze. 

“Good.” He lowers his sleep mask and drops his head back against the seat, the smile still on his face. 

-

Monday through Wednesday is a blur, especially when the only thing Harry has to look forward to is seeing Niall. Harry waits patiently on the sidelines while Niall finishes his weight cut and does the last bit of press before Saturday. Sitting in his hotel room, Harry finds that he doesn’t really know what to do with himself when he’s not occupying his time with training, drinking, or thinking about slitting his wrists. The only thing to do is lay in bed and daydream about Niall wrapping his arms around his waist. In his head, they’re laughing, rolling around on the too-plush hotel bed. Niall is grinning, with tears in his eyes that makes his irises look like glass. Harry closes the space between them and kisses Niall’s mouth, his lips on Niall’s perfect, straight teeth. Niall laughs and bites down on Harry’s bottom lip, just to tease him...

‘ _ I’m crazy about him _ ’ Harry thinks. Then, ever persistent, that awful voice in the back of his mind creeps up to the front and says,  _ ‘but you’re not good enough. You’ll never be good enough. You’ll always be a burden. You’re too sad. Too insecure. Give up.’ _

Harry opens his eyes. To the ceiling, he says. “I wish I was different. I wish I was better. How can I be better?”

A banging on his hotel door snaps him out of his thoughts. He goes to the door, peering out of the peephole. Liam is standing there, holding up a six pack of beer. Harry opens the door. “What’s going on?”

“We’re celebrating,” Liam says. “Niall’s on weight early. We’re over in Lou’s room, playing video games and having a few. You coming or what?”

Harry shrugs. “I guess.” He steps back into his room to change his t-shirt and throw on a hat.

Liam cheers as Harry returns to the hall and starts chanting. “One-forty-five! One-forty-five!”

In Louis’ room, it looks like a tornado hit. Clothes, food, and trash is strewn around like there was a rager thrown just hours before. “Don’t mind the mess,” Louis is saying, as Harry steps over the XBOX on the floor. 

Niall is sitting on the bed, reclined on the pillows with his legs outstretched. He looks relaxed and comfortable in his hoodie and shorts. He’s looking right at Harry, giving him that  _ look _ that he missed so fucking much. There’s a smirk on Niall’s lips, and Harry doesn’t miss the way Niall’s gaze softens when they lock eyes.

“Hey,” Harry sighs, because sometimes looking at Niall makes it hard for him breathe. 

“Hey you,” Niall responds, and pats the spot next to him on the bed. Harry goes, suddenly wishing they weren’t in Louis’ filthy hotel room with two other people. 

“Heard you were on weight already.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Almost. Three pounds to go. But, you know, any reason for those two to celebrate.”

Liam tosses a beer on the bed. “Have one, Harry.”

“ _ One _ ,” Louis reiterates, picking up an XBOX controller. He pulls up a chair to the foot of the bed and sits. “I will not be responsible for your drunk actions.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry tells him, and pops the cap of the beer using the edge of the nightstand. He settles into the pillows a little more, already feeling more relaxed with alcohol in his hand. It’s unfortunate, really. 

Liam sits on the floor, resting against the end of the bed. “You playing, Harry?”

Harry looks at the screen for the first time since walking in, and notices they’re playing Mortal Kombat. “I haven’t played this in like a decade.”

“Neither have I,” Niall speaks, then nudges Harry’s elbow with his. “You mentioned you used to be a gamer, right?”

Harry chuckles. “I played a lot of video games as a kid. Doesn’t make me a gamer.”

“I beg to differ,” Niall counters. 

Harry just smiles at him, because it’s like a flip has switched in him. Head spinning, butterflies, cheeks burning. How the fuck does Niall do that? 

“Alright, alright,” Harry relents. “I was a gamer.  _ Sort of _ .”

Niall looks right at him, his smile growing. “You were a nerd too.” 

Harry nudges him with his shoulder, unable to keep the giddy laugh from escaping. Niall pushes back playfully, but doesn’t pull away. He stills, resting their shoulders and knees together. 

It’s easy, the way they fall into- whatever it is they have. It’s good. Almost too good to be true. Harry clutches his beer in his hand and tries not to think about how that’s probably the reality of their situation. He sits there in silence and revels in how he can feel the hair on Niall’s legs stand on end. 

When Harry speaks again, his voice is quiet. “You're afraid of flying.” It’s more to himself than anything, a realization that gives him goosebumps. 

Niall keeps his eyes on the screen, and runs a hand through his hair. “I am, unfortunately.” He moves his hand to rest between them, his fingers brushing Harry’s thigh. 

“But...you flew to Denver to see me fight last month.” 

Niall’s goes red, chewing the corner of his lip. Harry wants to lean over and kiss the raw skin there. “I did.” 

“You did.” Harry swallows his nervousness and drops his hand between them, resting it on top of Niall’s. When he’s sure that Niall isn’t going to pull away, he hooks their pinkies together. 

Niall smiles, but doesn’t turn to look at him. “Your fingers are cold.”

“Sorry.” Harry moves to pull away but Niall stops him, flipping his palm to clasp Harry’s hand fully. 

“It’s okay.”

At that, Harry lets out the breath he’s been holding since he sat down. It’s okay. 

They’re okay. 

 

The next morning, before the weigh-ins, Harry knocks on Niall’s hotel door. Niall doesn’t look shocked to see Harry there, his smile is open and welcoming like always. He stands against the doorframe with the door half shut though, like he’s contemplating letting Harry in. It’s their first moment alone since getting to Vegas, but Harry knows it isn’t going to last. 

“Good morning,” Harry says, wondering if Niall can tell he dreamt about them holding hands last night. “Ready for the weigh-ins?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Niall sighs. “Exhausted and hungry. But I’m at 144.5.”

“That’s good though,” Harry tells him, “Better under than over.”

A silence falls between them, and Harry immediately starts to get restless, shuffling from one foot to the other. Niall opens his mouth to say something and Harry perks up, thankful he didn’t have to come up with something first. 

“About what happened a few days ago…,” he starts, his gaze on the dirty carpet. “My, um, panic attack… That hasn’t happened in a long time. Sorry you had to see it.”

“No, it was fine,” Harry affirms. He wants to hug him. He  _ could  _ hug him, if he was good at any sort of affection. But, he isn’t. Everything up until this point has been a complete fluke. “It wasn't a big deal. I mean, I understand that stuff.” 

Niall looks up, lifting a hand to chew on his thumbnail. “Is now a good time to say that I postponed our date mostly out of panic?” 

Despite the absurdity of Niall’s statement, Harry smiles. “Well you don’t have to tell me that  _ now _ .” 

Niall chuckles. “I get all crazy sometimes and I just need to be by myself to get all this shit in order…,” he trails off, tapping the side of his head. “So, I’m sorry.”

The statement hits home for Harry, and he hopes Niall isn't doing what he does- isolating himself and pushing everyone away. “You don’t need to apologize,” Harry replies, leaving no room for Niall to think otherwise. He'd hold Niall for hours, for days, if Niall would allow it.

“Okay. Good.” Niall nods and steps out of his room, shutting the door behind him. He starts to walk down the hall and Harry follows, without question. “I wanted to talk more yesterday but my friends are nosy as hell.” 

“They care a lot about you,” Harry comments, as they step into the elevator. 

“Yeah, somehow I lucked out in the friend department,” Niall says. He presses the button for the ground floor. “Though I do question some of their methods.”

Harry stands opposite Niall, raising a brow in question. “Methods for what?”

“Everything,” Niall answers, seriously. He can only keep a straight face for a second before he’s laughing, which is music to Harry’s ears. 

They leave the elevator and step into the cleared out ballroom together, parting to let Niall to reunite with his team. 

Niall’s weigh-ins are the opposite of Harry’s. Everything goes smoothly, and it’s uneventful in the grand scheme of things. Niall strips down to a smaller pair of shorts, steps onto the scale, and waits for the officials to read the number. He makes weight, of course, nodding in a knowing way when the official reads 144.5 exactly. There’s a quiet confidence about him up there, his body language relaxed. He gives Harry a thumbs up, then steps off the scale, and moves aside to talk to his manager. 

The best thing about being here is being able to see how fantastic Niall looks, Harry decides, after staring unabashedly for far too long. The muscles in his chest and abdomen are on display, popping more than usual because of the weight cut and slight dehydration. Still, Harry finds himself wondering what it would be like to lick down the middle of his six-pack and dip his tongue into the defined lines on his hips.

Niall steps off the makeshift stage, pulling his t-shirt back on. He’s holding two water bottles in each hand, prepared to start the rehydrating process. “So, I have to go talk with my team for a little while, but I wanted to invite you to lunch. We’re all meeting at the new burger place on the strip.”

“We?” Harry asks. 

“Me, Louis, Liam, um… my brother, and my mom,” he blushes, shrugging a shoulder. “And you, hopefully.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “I didn’t know your mom was in town.”

“She just made it in this morning,” Niall states, cracking open another water bottle. He takes a drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “She's probably more excited than I am.”

“You're not worried about her seeing you get beat up?” Harry wonders out loud. “Not saying that’ll happen, but you never know.”

Niall shrugs again, taking a long drink of water. “It wouldn't be the worst thing to happen.”

“I guess it wouldn't,” Harry decides, truly puzzled by how nonchalant someone can be. 

“Anyway,” Niall says, “it would be pretty cool if you came. Unless you have something better to do?”

Harry grins. “You know I don’t.”

Niall grins right back. “Good. I’ll see you in three hours.”

Back in his room, Harry sits on the edge of his bed and literally starts to sweat thinking about meeting Niall’s mom. They haven’t even had a legitimate date yet, and he’s about to meet Niall’s family. To try and curb the panic, he dumps his bags to look for something decent to wear, but it only makes things worse because his entire fucking wardrobe is decade old band shirts, ripped jeans, and gym clothes. After sitting in a pile of clothes for thirty entire minutes, he sends a text to his older sister.

‘ _ hey gem what do you wear to meet the parent of someone who you’re really into? _ ’

Gemma texts back right away, with three seperate messages.

_ ‘first off when were u gonna tell me you were dating someone?’ _

_ ‘second how serious is the relationship’ _

_ ‘also where are u guys going?’ _

Harry sends her the eye roll emoji, because he can’t help it, and types his response to all three questions.  _ ‘we’re not actually like dating dating, you know? But he’s asked me on a date? And we flirt? We haven’t even kissed. Anyway that’s irrelevant because I’m in vegas to watch him fight and didn’t know I was gonna meet his mom so I didn’t bring anything nice to wear. We’re just going to a burger restaurant.’  _ After he hits send, he realizes that his mom and sister are completely out of the loop regarding Harry’s personal life. 

Gemma takes ten minutes to reply to Harry’s text, and all it says is: ‘ _ wow okay didn’t know u gave a shit about ur appearance.’ _

_ ‘When I see you, I’m going to put gum in your hair,’  _ Harry replies. 

_ ‘lol if he likes you he wont care what u wear. as long as its clean obviously. anyway ur going to a fucking burger restaurant just chill out and put on a pair of jeans a clean shirt u idiot’ _

It’s been ages since Harry has put any real effort into his appearance. Deep down, he knows that Niall doesn’t care, he’s just not that type. But, meeting Niall’s mom? Harry at least wants to look like someone worthy of her son’s attention. Harry follows Gemma’s advice, settling on the nicest black t-shirt in his bag and a pair of jeans with the least holes, and looks at himself in the mirror. There isn’t any discernible difference, but there isn’t anything he can do about it other than pretend he’s too tired to go and wallow here in his pitiful sadness. 

Harry puts his fingertip on his reflection and gives himself a stern look. “Hey. Do not fuck this up. If you do, I swear to god, I’ll kill us both.”

-

It should have been expected that Niall’s mom is the sweetest woman alive. The second she saw Harry, she pulled him into a suffocating hug and kissed his cheek like they hadn’t seen each other in years. Niall’s brother, Greg, is polite enough but he does give Harry a wary look as they take their seats. 

‘ _ Fuck _ ,’ Harry thinks, ‘ _ He knows who I am. He knows what I did. I’m screwed. I’m screwed. I’m-’ _

Niall sits across from Harry, between Greg and his mom. “So,” he says, motioning at Harry. “this is Harry. Harry, this is my mom, Maura. You hugged him before I could get the introduction out.”

She beams at him. Her smile is genuine and bright, a lot like Niall’s. “You didn’t tell me how cute he was.”

Simultaneously, Greg and Niall groan. “ _ Mom _ .”

“Well, thanks?” Harry says, clearing his throat. “I am offended that he didn’t tell you though.”

She laughs, loud and uninhibited and wipes tears from her eyes. “Oh, I like you.”

Harry relaxes a little, thankful that the server comes over to take their drink order. He just used up his allotted amount of charm for the entire day, and now he doesn’t know how to keep the conversation going. For a minute, he contemplates ordering a beer. but stops himself. It’s a crutch that’s too easy to lean on, and he rarely knows when he’s verging on going overboard until it’s too late. One drink can turn into four in the blink of an eye. 

Greg and Niall start up a conversation about the rest of the fighters on the card, leaving Harry feeling excluded until he notices that Niall has started to play footsie with him under the table. It’s ridiculous, and juvenile, but that doesn’t mean Harry isn’t absolutely swooning over it. 

The server comes back with their drinks- a Sprite for Harry- at the same time Louis and Liam walk in. Harry has never been happier to see them. Louis comes in loud, greeting Maura and Greg as ‘Momma and Big Bro,’ and Harry is so thankful for the icebreaker. Liam ruffles Niall’s hair, greeting him as ‘Future Champ.’

“Don’t jinx it.” Niall swats his hand away. “And I told you to stop touching my hair, jesus.”

As everyone settles in, another person walks up to the table. They’re young, probably 16 or 17 and they’re holding their phone out with a shaky hand. “Hi.”

Niall speaks up first. “Hello.”

“Hi,” the kid repeats. “I’m like, a huge fan of yours so I was, um, wondering if I could, like, get a picture with you? Niall?”

“Of course!” Niall jumps up without hesitation and the kid is literally sweating as Niall put his arm around them for the photo op. Greg snaps the picture and hands the phone back, sending them on their way. Harry watches them return to the table across the aisle, and hears the excitement in their voice as they show off the picture to their parents and friends. 

Something happens then. A gross, muddy feeling starts crawling up Harry’s back. He looks around at all of these people here to support Niall, the fans that are sitting at the table across from theirs, and identifies the feeling. Jealousy. He’s always been jealous, possibly ever since he heard of the famous Niall Horan, but it’s been clouded by how head over heels he is for the man. He hates how easy it is to be back in this space, wishing he was someone else. 

Jealousy is his achilles heel, and another one of his old friends. He and Rage like to link arms and trample around in his chest, while Apathy follows behind with big needle that numbs everything for a while.

Harry takes a deep breath and tries looking over the menu to distract himself.

“Oh I just remembered!” Maura exclaims, digging through her purse. She pulls out her phone. “Harry, I have the perfect picture of Niall to show you.”

Niall actually gasps, reaching over to snatch her phone. “Don’t.” When he finds that she’s too quick, he gives up and slumps in his chair, covering his face with both hands. 

Liam and Louis start cackling. To Harry, Louis says, “If it’s the one I’m thinking of, then you gotta see it.” 

Harry nudges Niall’s foot under the table. “Is is that bad?” In response, Niall just grumbles. 

Maura slides the phone across the table and Harry is delighted when he sees the picture. The eyes are the same, and that’s about it. From the looks of the skinny, bare arms and the wrestling unitard, the picture was taken at least a decade ago. “Braces. That explains a lot.”

“Does it?” Niall peeks at Harry from between his fingers. There’s an amused glint in the one eye that Harry can see. 

“Doesn’t explain the fucked up bleach blonde with dark roots combination,” Liam quips. 

Niall raises his head and chucks a lemon wedge at him. “Shut up. At least I didn’t straighten my hair throughout high school.”

“It’s adorable, isn’t it?” Maura coos, ignoring the bickering around her. She takes her phone and looks at the picture, sighing wistfully. “That was his first competition. He was so nervous. Look at him now. I couldn’t be more proud.” She wraps an arm around Niall’s shoulder and squeezes. 

At the most inopportune time, jealousy starts to snake around his insides again. It’s thick and green and slithers up around his throat, hissing, ‘ _ You don’t have a family. You don’t have friends.’ _

Harry forces a smile and excuses himself to the restroom, pushing out of his chair and making a beeline towards the back of the restaurant. 

“Listen,” he says, poking his reflection in the chest. “I asked you not to fuck this up-,”

“Hey.”

“Shit.” Harry jumps, bumping his hip on the edge of the sink. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You alright?” Niall asks, coming to stand next to the sink. “You ran off pretty fast.’

“Felt kind of nauseous,” Harry says, giving him half the truth. “What about you?”

Niall steps closer, placing his hand on the sink next to Harry’s. “What about me?”

“Yeah, I mean, how are you feeling?” Harry asks. “About the fight and everything.”

Niall sighs, starting to chew his lip. “Nervous,” he admits. He turns so he’s facing the stalls, giving Harry a view of his profile. “Zayn and I used to train together.”

“Yeah?” Harry doesn’t know much about Zayn, other than his undefeated status in MMA. Every other person who has challenged him for the belt has lost, embarrassingly. 

“Yeah, before he went off to do bigger and better things. In Florida of all places,” Niall chuckles and shakes his head. “I feel good that I know all of his weaknesses, but I also know that he’s a really good fighter-,” 

“But you're better,” Harry interrupts. He’s seen Zayn fight before, and yeah he’s good but his fight IQ is nowhere near Niall’s. No offense to the guy, but Harry knows if it goes to the ground then the fight won’t be long.

“He's intense,” Niall replies, his eyes on the ugly brown tile. “Like, on another level.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “So?” 

Niall smirks. “ _ So _ ... I've never fought anyone like that.” 

“ _ So _ ?” Harry repeats. 

Niall laughs now, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“What else do you want me to say?” Harry stares at the side of Niall’s face, wanting to memorize the pattern of freckles on his nose. “You're the best fighter I know.” It's the same thing Niall said to Harry before his fight last month, and Harry hasn't stopped thinking about it since then. It's much more true for Niall though, someone who literally has the whole world in the palm of his hand. 

Niall turns, facing Harry again. “I have something I want to ask you,” he says abruptly. 

Harry is taken, completely mesmerized by the tenderness of Niall’s gaze. “What?”

“Ummm, I wanted to ask you this earlier, but I assume now is as good a time as any.” Niall pauses, shuffles from one foot to the other and takes a deep breath. “So… I was wondering...if you would, like, if you want to- but  _ I _ want you to, of course- if you would be in my corner tomorrow night?” 

For a minute, Harry is truly struck speechless. “ _ Me _ ?” 

“Yes, you.” 

“You want  _ me  _ to be in your corner for your  _ championship fight _ ?” Harry points to himself. “Me?”

Niall nods, as earnest as ever. “Yes.” 

Harry frowns, bewildered. “Uhh,  _ why _ ?” 

“Why not?” Niall counters.

“Do you not have anyone else to choose from, or…? An actual veteran? Someone who’s been champion before possibly?” 

“I mean, other people definitely offered,” Niall takes another step into Harry’s space, close enough that Harry can feel his breath on his face. His voice are soft, and Harry wonders if his lips feel the same. “But I want you.” 

“Oh.”   _ ‘I want you,’ _ echoes around in his head, making it hard for him to say anything else.

“Afterall,” Niall says, “you did coach me leading up to this fight.” 

Harry scoffs. “Barely.”

“It still counts,” Niall says softly. “So, is that a yes or no?”

“It’s a yes,” Harry answers, his eyes unable to stray from Niall’s. The next words slip out, before Harry thinks to stop them. “It’s not like I could ever say no to you.”

“Gentlemen!” 

Harry jumps back, like he’s been burned, and spins to face the door. 

Louis comes bounding into the restroom with a hand over his eyes. “I’m sure what’s happening here is great but we’ve been waiting of you guys to order your food.”

Niall walks over and smacks Louis in the side of the head, earning a failed punch in return. “Asshole.” He leaves the restroom, sending Harry a smile over his shoulder. 

Louis clicks his tongue. “ _ Well _ ,  _ well _ ,  _ well _ .”

Harry holds up his hands in defense. “Nothing happened.”

“Sure.” Louis gives him an exaggerated wink. “Totally believable.” 

Shoving past him, Harry can’t wipe the smile off his face. He goes back to the table and sits, biting back his grin and hiding his flushed cheeks behind his menu. 

-

Having an MMA event in Vegas is quite the spectacle. The company they’re signed to pulled out all the glitz and glamor, all the lights, confetti, and literal fireworks anyone can ask for. 

As Harry walks out to the cage with Niall, he looks out at all of the happy and screaming faces. People of all ages and genders jumping in excitement and pure joy of seeing Niall.

Niall gets his mouth guard in, kicks off his shoes, and pulls off his t-shirt. The cut-man greases up his face, and Niall turns to Harry one last time before stepping into the cage. 

They spent the entire day together, going out for breakfast with Liam and Louis again before Niall had to get to the venue. Niall has been a complete bundle of nerves all day, reverting back to the quiet, wound up version of himself. But Harry has found that if he holds out his hand, Niall will take it and interlock their fingers. Then, it’s like nothing else in the world matters.

‘You got this,” Harry tells him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. Niall shoots him a shaky smile and runs up the steps. The cage door closes and locks behind him, and Harry takes his seat as the lights dim. 

The crowd goes equally wild for Zayn, and Harry knows then that it’s going to be a tough fight for both of them. Having fans on your side sways the energy in the room, giving a fighter a will to keep going even if they want to give up. The roaring rumbles through the floor and shakes the walls, fueling the fighters that much more.

The announcer does his whole speel, letting the whole world know that the fight is five 5-minute rounds and is for the Featherweight Title. When the announcer steps back, and the ref steps in the explain the rules, Zayn and Niall face off for the first time. Zayn looks downright mean, staring Niall down with the kind of intensity you can’t fake. Niall stares back, stone-faced. Unshaken.

“Malik should be shitting himself right about now,” Niall’s coach remarks, right before the first bell rings.

The first round starts and Zayn is head hunting right out of the gate. This could be a mistake on Zayn's part, but it’s hard to tell this early. Niall starts timidly, probably knowing that getting too close could mean his demise. They exchange some feeler punches before Niall shoots for a takedown. He goes for the single leg, quick to try and trip Zayn and grab his ankle. Zayn defends it and tosses a kick to block Niall’s attempt, walking backwards into the cage. There, in the clinch, Niall throws elbows and sinks in a guillotine hold that isn't in the right position to end the fight. Zayn slips out of the choke quickly and the clinch battle goes on. Next to Harry, Niall’s coaches start to yell out directions that Niall will ultimately ignore. The clinch battle lasts for the majority of the round, causing the fans to boo and the ref to reset the fighters in the center of the cage. With the new positioning, Zayn is more reserved with his strikes, trying to avoid the takedown. Niall doesn’t take the bait- he throws smart combos, landing accurately. It’s enough to rile Zayn up and get him upset enough to chase after Niall again. With a minute left, they start exchanging blows right in the middle of the cage, neither of them backing down. The crowd goes wild, and Harry can hear the commentators some yards away screaming, “This could be it! The fight could be over here!” 

Zayn’s tenacity is something to be reckoned with but Niall plants his feet and throws, too fast to get hit. He’s cuts angles, his head not there when Zayn’s fist ties to connect. Zayn is swinging hard and fast, throwing his entire body into it. Niall's faster though, circling out and coming back with strikes to the body. At the very end of the first, one blow lands to Niall's nose, and the floodgates open right away. Blood pours from his face and onto his chest. Harry knows a broken nose when he sees one. Niall grimaces, but pushes through the rest of the round. Harry winces, knowing that pain too well. The bell rings to signal the end of the round and Harry gets up with Niall’s team, stepping into the cage. 

Niall drops down onto the stool, breathing hard from his mouth. “It’s broken,” he pants. To Harry, he smiles and says, “I’m fine-,” Before he can say anything else, his head coach shushes him and starts bombarding him with more directions. Someone shoves cotton up Niall’s nose to temporarily stop some of the bleeding, someone else uses a towel to wipe him down, and Harry hands him a bottle of water. With 10 seconds left between rounds, they put a metal cold compress to his face to decrease any swelling and take the bloody cotton out of his nose. Harry is halfway out of the cage when Niall grabs his hand with his heavy glove and squeezes, before turning back to face his opponent.

Two minutes into the second round, Niall gets the first takedown of the fight. They're down for about minute, with Niall in Zayn’s guard and Zayn defending from his back. For a second, Harry thinks Niall is going to end it. He's landing elbows from the top, one them hard enough to cut Zayn across the brow. When Zayn notices the blood dripping down the side of his face, he pulls Niall to his chest and tries to close the guard. But, because Niall is a jiu jitsu and wrestling wizard, he slips out of the hold and gets to his feet. 

Next to Harry, the coaches cry out. “What the fuck are you doing?!” 

“Let him work,” Harry finds himself saying. Harry can almost see Niall thinking. He's methodical, his eyes dark and focused. He knows that if he spends too much time on the ground trying to get a submission, he'll gas out. But, if he lets Zayn punch himself out trying to connect, then it'll be easier to get the submission later. Zayn is tired now, breathing heavy, a little flat on his feet. He throws and misses, stepping into the clinch. Niall spins him and steps him into the cage throwing elbows and knees that disturb Zayn's rhythm. They seperate, after Zayn fights his way out, and with about 30 seconds left in the second round, Niall throws a roundhouse head kick. 

Harry hasn’t seen Niall throw a head kick in his entire career, other than the one or two he showed him at the gym. He had no idea Niall had that in his arsenal. The kick doesn’t land flush, and it’s sort of messy and not really set up properly. The crowd seems to gasp collectively but Zayn is unfazed, blocking the kick with his forearm. It wasn’t a perfect kick. Yet, for some fucking reason, the fact that Niall did it makes Harry smile so hard his jaw starts to hurt. 

Then, once the round is over, Niall is walking over to his corner and looks right at Harry through the fence. He smiles and points. “That was for you!” he shouts. Harry could faint actually. He could pass out right here cageside and let the paramedics take him out on a stretcher.

Coming into the third round, Niall's coaches are afraid he's slowing down. They drop ice packs on his shoulders and tell him that he needs to go for the takedown more. Harry lets them do the talking, only standing there to hold the water basically. It's hard to tell what the judges have scored it so far, but Harry is positive that the second round is Niall's. When Niall squeezes Harry’s hand this time, Harry holds on a second longer, before letting go reluctantly.

The third round starts with Niall getting double leg takedown right away. It’s like Zayn weighs nothing, the way Niall sweeps his legs and puts them chest to chest on the mat. Zayn lifts his hips to try and escape, but makes the mistake of giving up his back. Niall wraps his arm around Zayn’s neck, hooks his feet under Zayn’s legs, and flips them over. Zayn panics, trying to land any strikes he can, and Niall uses this to his advantage. Niall is calm as he works from his back, comfortable on the ground. He eventually scores the body triangle, wrapping his legs around Zayn’s waist, using his feet and hips to flatten Zayn out. He’s like a snake, wrapping himself around Zayn and squeezing until there’s no room for air. He sinks in the choke, his bicep pressing into Zayn's throat. 

Zayn taps so fast the ref doesn't see it right away. Niall's corner jumps up in victory anyway, before the bell even sounds to signal the end of the fight. The referee separates them, and Niall leaps to his feet, shouting in victory as he does a lap around the cage. 

The crowd is deafening. Every single person is on their feet, cheering and screaming for Niall. 

When the cage door is finally opened, and Niall’s team rushes inside, Niall pushes past his coaches and goes right to Harry, tears streaming down his battered face. He pulls Harry into a hug and cries, “I did it.” He holds Harry tight, speaking right into his ear.  His nails dig into Harry’s back, his chin tucked into the crook of his neck. “I fucking did it.”

When the big gold belt is draped over Niall's shoulder, Harry feels tears begin to prick at the back of his eyes, leaving him wondering when he turned into such a big fucking baby. He moves back for Niall’s post-fight interview, letting him have the limelight he deserves. 

“Holy shit, I don’t even know what to say,” Niall says, running his hand over the belt. “This is so cool.”

Niall thanks his team, family, and friends, giving a pointed look in Harry’s direction. It’s the second time tonight that Harry thinks he could faint. Harry listens to Niall talk about how hard his training camp was and how grateful he was to have good people around, and falls even harder for him. He didn’t know it was possible, but apparently it is. Niall ends the interview by thanking all of the fans, blowing a kiss at the audience, then he walks over to his opponent and shakes his hand. Zayn looks downcast but gives Niall a wary smile before congratulating him. He gives Niall a pat on the back and mouths something Harry can’t decipher. Niall laughs and tells him it was a “good fight,” then waves to the audience one more time. 

As they’re all corralled out of the cage, Niall finds Harry’s hand and holds it like he’s afraid they’d lose each other without the link. 

Backstage, Liam and Louis try and get the celebration going right away. Louis hops onto a table and literally pops a bottle of champagne before he’s promptly told to ‘get the fuck down’ by a member of the tech crew. 

“Ayyy!” he wails, hopping off the table. He holds the foaming bottle over his head and grabs Niall around the waist, walking him around in circles. “This is my best fucking friend and he’s the featherweight champion! We’re poppin’ bottles tonight boys!”

“I planned an after party,” Liam explains, pulling Harry aside. “Everyone is meeting at Niall’s room after the conference and then we’re heading to a club down near the end of the strip. VIP room and everything. And before you say anything, you’re not allowed to say you aren’t going. If you don’t go, Niall won’t go.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t try and guilt trip me into going to a stupid party at a club.”

“Are you that fucking clueless?” Liam asks and when Harry frowns, he holds up a hand to stop him. “I’m serious. Do you think Niall would go out to a club in Vegas if you weren’t there? If you know anything about him, you know that he’s a goddamn shut-in that spends his time organizing his kitchen     , doing yoga, and watching Food Network. And even if he  _ does _ go without you, I really don’t want to watch him pout all night because you’re not there. So, suck it up and take one for the team.” He grabs Harry by the shoulders and shakes him. “Please.”

“First of all,” Harry starts, shaking him off. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Second, if you know he’ll hate it, why even have a party there?”

“Because he deserves it! And I know he’ll have fun in the end.” Liam sticks out his lower lip and begs. “Please, please, please. Just show up. Louis says if Niall gets a drink or two in him, he’ll suck your dick.”

Harry looks at him, opening his mouth to say something, literally  _ anything _ , but nothing comes out. “I’m actually speechless.”

“Good,” Liam grins and grabs him by the shoulders again. “So, you’ll show up?”

“Nope,” Harry answers, easily, shrugging him off. “Sorry, it just isn’t my thing. Excessive drinking? Aggressive guys just looking to fight? Not a good formula. Eating glass would be healthier for me.”

Liam groans. “Fine! I give up!” He backs away, grumbling, “We were only trying to get you laid, but fine.”

Harry laughs, despite how fucking ridiculous the conversation has been, and turns his attention back to Niall. There’s dried blood on his nostrils, his nose is swollen, and his bottom lip is busted, but he looks over the moon. He’s still being held hostage by Louis, who parades him around the hall like a trophy. Niall wrestles out of Louis’ grasp and calls him annoying, but his smile doesn’t falter as he approaches Harry. He still has his belt over his shoulder, carrying it proudly. 

“So, will I see you later?”

“Well,” Harry says, tentatively. “I’m not sure I really want to go to the after party thing. Not really the best environment for me, you know?” Harry doesn’t really want to go into detail about it. It’s best if Niall doesn’t get any more ideas of how repulsive Harry can be when he drinks.

Niall nods. “Well-,”

Harry cuts him off, noticing the way the light in Niall’s eyes dim a little. “I mean, if you want me to come I can stop by for a little while.” In the back of his mind, he imagines Louis calling him whipped. Maybe Harry is whipped. So fucking what? He’d do anything if it meant that he could hold Niall’s hand all night. 

As quickly as it left, the light returns to his eyes and his smile grows. “I was just thinking that even if you don’t come, I can still see you later?”

“Oh,” Harry answers, eloquently.

“We’ll play it by ear, okay?” Niall says, giving Harry’s arm a quick squeeze. “Right now I should really take care of the whole broken nose situation because the second the post-fight adrenaline wears off I’m gonna hate life.”

Harry shoos him away. “Go, go… we’ll, um, catch up later,” he says, his palms suddenly starting to sweat. He swears he sees Niall’s eyes darken a little, his pupils dilating, before he walks away. 

-

Harry finds a flask in the inside pocket of his luggage that’s still full. Briefly, he berates himself for his pathetic alcoholic behavior, then unscrews the top to take a drink. Just to take the edge off, he tells himself.

He hasn’t heard from Niall yet- and won’t fully admit that he’s waiting up for him to text or call. To pass the time, he took a shower, changed into something comfortable, cuddled up in the huge bed and watched the live post-fight press conference on his phone. 

Niall sat on the panel with his shiny new belt in front of him, and new splint on his nose. When a reporter in the crowd asked Niall about having Harry in his corner, Niall played it coy. 

“Just found myself getting close to him over the course of my training.”

It gets the butterflies in Harry’s stomach going again, but that insecure little bastard of a voice in the back of mind makes its way to the front and says:  _ ‘He’s way too fucking good for you.’ _

By the end of the hour long press conference, Harry has a good buzz going. It’s enough for him to stop thinking about how heavy he’s starting to feel again. Being alone does to this to him sometimes. When he’s around other people, people who bring out the best in him, he can forget about how terrible he feels. But the second he’s alone, reality punches him in the chest and he remembers who he is.

“Right,” he mumbles to himself, bringing the flask to his lips, “as if I could ever be happy for longer than a day.”

It’s almost one in the morning when there’s a knock at his door. It’s so late that Harry had almost given up on Niall showing up. But here he is, standing in the hallway holding a vanilla milkshake, a greasy fast food takeout bag, and a plastic bag from 7-11. Along with the new nose splint, there’s a bruise forming across his nose and under both eyes and a small cut on his brow bone closed with a butterfly stitch. 

“Hey,” Harry says. A brief moment of panic spikes his heart rate as he wonders if his breath smells like vodka. He blurts out the first thing he thinks of. “Your nose looks fucked.”

Niall laughs. “It is fucked.” 

Niall’s presence is welcome, but Harry doesn’t know if he’s any good to talk to right now. His headache is back, knocking on his skull as if it's making up for lost time. “Don't you have a post fight party to go to?” 

“I stopped by, had a drink,” Niall explains. “Then told them I wanted to go to bed.” 

“But, you're here…” Harry trails off, hoping his point comes across.

“Nowhere else I'd rather be,” Niall says, just like that. Like it doesn’t mean the world to Harry. “Gonna let me in or are we gonna eat in the hall?”

“Oh.” Harry snaps out of his lovestruck stare and lets him in. 

“Sorry, I'm mouth breathing for a while,” Niall says, setting his food on the bedside table. He kicks his shoes off and settles on the bed. He’s in full relaxation mode, wearing a pair of cut-off sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. “You would think that the second time breaking your nose would suck less. It doesn’t.” 

“I don't mind the mouth breathing,” Harry chuckles, sitting down on the bed next to him. He slides in slowly, stretching out his legs and settling his back against the headboard so there's some space between them. 

Niall watches the TV screen, smiling at the old Friends episode. “Rachel and Joey was the biggest reach ever,” he comments. 

Harry watches as Ross claims that he’s  _ ‘fine’  _ for the third time and laughs. “Jeez, I know. The writers really tried to shove that down our throats.” 

“Right, everyone knows Ross and Rachel are meant to be.” 

Harry looks at him, clicking his tongue. “You’re wrong. She’s too good for him.”

Niall squints, opening dumping the plastic bag out on the bed. “Don’t argue this with me. You’ll lose.”

“You seem passionate about it, so I won’t open that barrel of worms,” Harry tells him, to which Niall responds with a scoff. Harry looks at all the snacks on the bed between them. “Chips, candy,  _ and  _ a milkshake huh?” 

Niall makes a noise, like he’s truly offended. “Hey, did I not just become featherweight champion? I think I deserve a junk food binge. Also, I brought you fries.” He hands over the greasy fast food bag. “With cajun seasoning.” 

“Thanks.” Harry opens the bag and eats a fry. Niall pulls his face into an exaggerated grimace, then smiles. “So, you’re the champion now. How does it feel?” 

“It hasn't fully set in yet. I still feel like...boring and regular.” He shrugs, opening up a bag of gummy worms. He offers the bag to Harry and Harry declines, too busy wondering how he can tell Niall that he’s far from boring.

“What's next for you?” he asks, instead. 

“After defending the title?” 

“Yeah.” 

Niall hums, and takes a bite of a gummy worm. “Keep defending it until I can't anymore, I guess? I've thought about going down in weight and taking a crack at that title.” 

“‘Take a crack at it.’” Harry repeats. “Like you don’t know you’d win.” 

“You think so?” Niall asks, genuinely wondering.  

“You’d plow through the entire division probably,” Harry says. “They’re all like 4 feet tall, first of all. You’d kick Louis’ ass, I know that much.”

Niall laughs. “I need a challenge then… I could bulk up and fight you at 155.” 

Harry grins. “Oh really?” 

“Mhmm.” Niall hums, nodding fervently. 

“I'd put you on your ass,” Harry jokes. 

Niall fires right back, never one to back down. “That's fine. I can work from my back.” 

At that, Harry blushes and stuffs about six fries in his mouth. Niall notices and starts cracking up, turning his gaze to the TV.

After a few minutes Niall speaks up again, abruptly. “I was terrified.” 

“Of what?” 

“Generally, I guess,” Niall answers, quietly. “All last week I had the worst time with trying to calm myself down. I would think I was fine and then I would start worrying about, like, breaking my ankle the day before the fight or, like my mom’s plane crashing on the way to Vegas. Then, I'd go to bed and have a nightmare about something stupid. Like, getting beat up by my middle school bully but not being able to move fast enough to fight.” 

Harry pauses, contemplating how deep he wants to go before he responds. “I get that. I mean, my bullshit is different… most of my intrusive thoughts and nightmares have to do with me driving into the desert and never coming back. Or, like...hurting myself or something stupid.” 

Niall looks at him now, setting the bag of candy down. “Does that ever scare you?” 

Harry stares back, finding solace in Niall’s soft gaze. “Um, funnily enough, it's sort of comforting sometimes? I can't explain it. I guess it's knowing that I could if I really wanted to... I just like, linger on it for a minute and usually the thought passes.” 

“You're lucky then,” Niall sighs, breaking eye contact. “For me, when thoughts that bad pop up, I just obsess for  _ hours  _ until I'm overwhelmed and can barely function.” 

Harry stares at the side of his face for what feels like a long time. The energy in the room has shifted. Suddenly, cutting himself open, baring his soul and telling Niall everything doesn’t sound so terrifying. 

“...I get embarrassed when I'm sad for too long,” he starts, shifting uncomfortably in his spot. “I start thinking that I have no reason to be and that it's stupid to let myself wallow in it.” 

“I don't think it's stupid,” Niall responds. He looks at Harry again, turning his body a little towards him. “It's better than ignoring it, and pretending to be fine when you're not. Better out than in.” 

“I guess you’re right,” Harry says. “I never think about it that way.”

“As for it being embarrassing, who the fuck are you trying to impress by being able to control every emotion?” Niall sighs, running his hand through his hair. He looks at his hand, starting to pick at his nails. “I know I’m guilty of that though. Trying so hard to seem okay and ‘put together,’ no matter what. It’s exhausting.” 

Harry relaxes a little, Niall's words settling in Harry's chest. Harry feels for him, and wants to tell him that he doesn't have to pretend to be okay around Harry. They don't have to talk- Harry would be more than satisfied with sitting quietly with him, offering silent support. “So, how do you feel right now? Honestly.” 

“Umm.” Niall purses his lips in thought. “Anxious. Happy. Grateful.” 

“All at the same time?” 

Niall smirks. “Humans are complicated, Harry.” 

Silence falls between them, and Niall looks at the TV again, laughing at something Rachel said. Harry stares at him, not caring about being discrete. Looking at him from this distance makes Harry dizzy. Dizzy in the way you get when you stand up too fast and the room spins. Or, like when you have a crush so big, it takes up all of the space in your chest, pushes all of the air out of your lungs, makes your breathing shallow and your head light. It’s suffocating, in the most enrapturing way.

“I don't usually talk to people about this stuff.” Niall speaks, his voice quiet.

“Yeah. I never talk about this with anyone. But with you, it...feels different.,” Harry admits, averting his eyes when Niall looks at him. 

“How?” 

“I don't know,” Harry shrugs, picking at the seam of his shorts. “It's usually easier for me to hold everything in or ignore it completely.” 

“Yeah and how does that work for you?” 

Harry smiles, shaking his head. “It doesn't.” 

Niall smiles back. “I get it. It’s kinda nerve wracking when you wanna tell someone stuff...like, the real stuff, but not knowing how they'll react.” Harry nods in agreement and Niall continues. “Not with you though. I feel like you get it. Like you aren't gonna run off the second you find out I have...baggage.” 

‘''Baggage,’” Harry repeats, lifting his gaze to look at him. Niall is the one looking away now, his eyes on the ceiling. “What kind of baggage?” 

Niall moves so his back is against the propped up pillows and crosses his hands over his chest. “Well, since you asked… I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder, OCD, and an undiagnosed sleep disorder that’s probably just a side effect of the other two.” 

“Oh.” Harry stops, studying Niall's expression. He looks nonchalant about it, so Harry tries to hide his shock. The meds in Niall's bathroom and the panic attack Harry witnessed gave away the anxiety disorder. But OCD is one he wouldn't have guessed. “Do you take meds for  _ all  _ of that?” 

“Unfortunately.” Niall lists them off on his fingers. “Sertraline for the OCD, Ambien for the sleep disorder, which I only take when I need, and  Alprazolam for anxiety, which I don’t like to take because the side effects are kind of ruining my life. So, I’m trying to figure out what else I can do instead. I figure Sertraline is kind of a one-size-fits all drug anyway.” 

“Does it actually work for OCD?” Harry asks. He and Sertraline are all too familiar with each other, though they've fallen out recently. He's thought about going back on it, but it never helped, other than numbing him enough to not cry himself to sleep.

“Yeah. Otherwise I'd probably have agoraphobia by now.” Niall glances at Harry, raising a brow. “What?”

Harry must not be doing a great job pretending to not be surprised, so he just asks. “So, you actually have OCD? Like for real OCD?” 

“You look so concerned,” Niall laughs. 

“You just don't seem like you would…,” Harry trails off and Niall raises both eyebrows. 

“Doesn't seem like what? Like I'd have problems at all?” 

Harry rolls his eyes, but his heart skips a beat at the possibility of offending him. “Obviously that's not what I meant.” 

Niall sighs and his voice is softer when he speaks again. “I know. It's just a weird thing when people say ‘you don't look like you have OCD,’ because apparently I should be pulling out my hair every second of every day. Despite popular belief, It's not like what you see on TV. I'm fine, really.” 

“This is probably a stupid question, but what’s it like?” 

“Shitty?” Niall cracks a smile, giving Harry permission to laugh. “Yeah it sucks, but not as dramatic as people think. Not every day anyway. I can function, in my own ways. It's more annoying than it is anything else. It was worse when I was little apparently, but I don’t remember it… My dad says it started after my first dog got sick and died. I had all these weird routines I started like, sleeping with every single door in the house open, or else my new puppy would die. Thinking back on it, I can’t see the logic in it but I was seven, so who knows.” 

“Oh.” It’s a lot to take in, especially all at one time. It’s another thing that changes Harry’s perception of Niall, adding another layer to who he is. 

“Then came high school,” Niall goes on, with a groan, “I called myself meticulous. It didn’t even occur to me until after I graduated that it was ‘obsessive.’ I thought all good students stayed up for five days straight to study for midterms.” 

Harry finds himself leaning in, invested in Niall's story. “And you just couldn’t stop yourself?” 

“I tried. But then I thought if I stopped, I would fail and drop out and I’d get nowhere in life.” 

“And look at you now, Mr. Featherweight Champion.” 

“If you would have told 18 year old Niall that he was going to be doing this instead of college and grad school, he would have had a heart attack probably.” 

Harry reaches between them and takes a gummy worm out of the bag. “You said this felt better though, right?”

“Loads better. I don’t have any extreme or too ‘irrational’ compulsions anymore, I don’t think. Not like putting your left sock on first every day because you think every tree in the forest will die if you don’t. And don’t even laugh because I met a lady with that compulsion at group therapy.” 

“So, you can laugh but I can’t?” 

“Exactly. I’m ‘one of them.’” Harry grins and Niall continues. “I  _ am _ sort of a neat freak, but I’m positive that has nothing to do with OCD. I have a sleep ritual, sort of. Pre-fight ritual, like most other fighters. Other than that, it’s all up here.” He taps his head. “My brain likes to convince me that every possible worst case scenario is actually going happen.” 

“Obsessive thoughts,” Harry says, everything starting to come together.

“Number one is definitely the fear that someone I care about will get hurt or die. Number two is that  _ I  _ will somehow get hurt or die. Number three is basically that I’m going to fail at everything I try. And the thing is that those alone aren’t uncommon things to worry about...I just get so- I don’t know. It fucking consumes me sometimes.”

Harry stays quiet, deciding to let Niall vent. ‘ _ He’s human, _ ’ Harry thinks. ‘ _ He’s not the perfect angel you built him up to be...but he’s damn near close.’ _

“I still can’t go to bed without calling my mom, even if we talk for like 10 seconds. If I wake up in the middle of the night it’s because something has happened to her, so I’ll call again. She thinks it’s insane but she always answers… some days are worse than others. I couldn't tell you why, but I know that when it spikes I’m a bigger mess than usual.” 

“I don’t think you’re a mess... I’ve never seen it personally,” Harry says, for lack of anything better to say. “Actually it makes me feel loads better about being a mama’s boy too.”

“Okay, I resent being called a mama's boy,” Niall laughs. “And you witnessed me having the worst anxiety I’ve had in like a year, so I’d say you’ve seen how bad I can get.” 

“Still don’t think you’re a mess,” Harry tells him, “so don't try and convince me.” 

“Fine. I won't.” Niall’s face reddens, and it mixes with the purplish bruises under his eyes. “I’m trying to meditate a lot more. Fighting helps too. Gives me something to focus on, without having too much to think and worry about. I might be scared shitless right before I walk into the cage but the second I’m in there, I’m fine…”

“It's good you've found ways to cope, at least,” Harry says.

“I try...,” Niall picks up the bag of chips and rips it open. He holds the bag out to Harry and Harry accepts, pulling out a few chips as Niall keeps talking. “I think the main problem, in general, is people are ashamed of having feelings like fear and anger, because they don't want to be seen as weak.” 

“Or, like they have no self control,” Harry adds, his chest tightening. 

“Exactly. Obviously it's not a choice how you feel or think. It's a choice how you cope. Once people get over themselves and stop beating themselves up for being human, they can start trying to find things that work for them.”

“I was on sertraline, never really worked for me,” Harry admits, abruptly. Then he takes a shaky breath before announcing: “I'm depressed. Like, clinically. And I was prescribed Ambien for a while before people realized it didn’t do anything for nightmares.” 

Harry is sure he has a heap of other issues too, but he doesn’t want to sit in a small, windowless room and listen to everything that’s wrong with him again. He’s been trying for months to bury the memory of his last therapy session, a year ago, and how the phrase ‘bipolar type 2’ was being thrown around. That's something he won't even begin to accept. Being classified as having depression is enough to cultivate his self-hate.

Niall blinks at him. “How do you cope?” 

“I don't,” Harry deadpans. 

Niall chuckles, either missing or choosing not to comment on the seriousness of Harry's statement. “Funny.” 

“I try and write every now and then,” Harry says. 

“Right, you did say you were a writer.” 

“I never said I was a writer. I said I liked to write,” Harry corrects. 

“Hmph. I’ll be the judge of that.” Niall holds out his hand and it takes Harry a minute to realize what he's asking for.

“Alright, fine.” Harry grabs his journal off the table next to him and hands it over. “Be gentle. They probably don't make any sense. None of them are finished or coherent for that matter.” 

Incidentally, Niall turns right to the last page and starts reading a poem that may or may not have been inspired by him. Harry holds his breath and recites the words in his head as Niall reads. 

_ ‘The angels plucked stars out of the galaxies and made you in their image… they shone gems by hand and made them your eyes, and placed the electricity in your fingertips that send a spark through my veins and warm me to my core…’ _

Niall doesn’t comment on whether he hates it or not, but he does linger on the page for minute. Finally, he closes the book and looks up. “Do you think we'd… know each other if we weren't fighters?” 

Harry takes his journal, putting it back on the table. “What do you mean?” 

“Um… sorry, that was weird. Let me just-” 

When Harry turns back, Niall is chewing on his nails. Harry gently knocks his hand away from his mouth. “Don’t- No, you're- it's not like… I'm just genuinely wondering what you mean.” 

“I mean if we met somewhere else and we were just normal people,” Niall says, with a small laugh, “maybe in college or working office jobs. Do you think we'd be friends?” 

“Who says we're friends now?” Harry jokes, though his palms are starting to clam up. He’s thought about it, laying in bed and imagining where he would be if Niall hadn’t walked into his life.

“Nice one,” Niall says, his tone serious, “but you didn't answer the question.” 

“I think...” Harry says, focusing on the glint in his eyes. “I think, we would found have each other somehow.” 

The weight of what he says literally knocks the wind out of him. And with Niall’s unwavering stare, Harry can’t take it. He gets up and walks to the restroom, locking the door behind him and turning on the sink.

To his reflection, he says. “Okay. Calm down. Chill out. Don’t freak out. You’re fine. This is fine.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, lets it out of his mouth, and turns off the sink. 

When he comes back to the bed, Niall keeps talking as if Harry hadn’t left.

“What does the tattoo on your leg say?” 

“It’s a poem,” Harry says, turning his leg so Niall can see the ink on his calf. “I literally wrote it when I was 18, so please make me to read it.” 

“It’s important enough to put on your body forever so it means something right?” 

Harry stares at him, no comeback for that. 

“Right?” Niall repeats. 

“Right,” Harry relents. “It says, ‘who am i but the lonely one who wants nothing, feels nothing, and shackles his hands to resist the blade’” He sticks his leg under the blanket, hiding the tattoo.

Niall doesn’t ask what it means, and for that Harry is glad. But he does reach between them and grab Harry’s left hand, flipping it to study the tattoo on his forearm. “What does this one mean?”

“Just thought it looked cool, to be honest. It was the first one I got for my sleeve,” Harry says, looking at the black and grey redwoods that cover his entire forearm. It’s only the partial truth. Once all of his self-harm scars healed, he promised he would get them covered, and it’s the one promise he has actually gone through with. There are dozens of scars, thin and flesh colored, hidden under the dark ink. Sometimes, Harry wonders what his arm would look like today, if he never got the tattoo. He wonders if he’d still be adding a new scar every night. Niall looks closely at the tattoo, then runs his fingertip along old markings. 

“I never noticed,” he murmurs, his voice laced with consternation. “I can’t believe I never noticed.”

Harry’s clears his throat, his heart basically in his stomach now. He draws Niall’s attention upwards to his bicep, pointing to the tattoo there. It’s a bloodied portrait of Ares and his spear. “I got this before I moved down here. The rest of my tattoos are trash. All stick and pokes and words that don’t mean anything.”

“This is amazing,” Niall whispers, his fingertip circling the tattoo. He drags his fingertip all the way down Harry’s arm and takes his hand again. It sends shivers up Harry’s spine. 

As Niall studies the portrait, Harry eyes the tattoos on Niall’s forearms. He gives in to his urge and reaches out to grab Niall’s left hand, definitely noticing the gasp that escapes his lips. They have both hands linked, no big deal. It really isn’t. Harry is definitely not trying to swallow down his panic. 

“I like this one,” Harry says, referring to the colorful tattoo on Niall’s arm. “Does it mean anything?” 

“Umm,” Niall lifts his hand, with Harry's still attached, and rubs a thumb over the undefined watercolor. “It kind of, uh, represents me?” 

“Kind of?” Harry asks, squeezing Niall’s hand. 

Niall blushes, and Harry didn’t realize until this moment that he could get someone flustered, tripping over their words. “Sorry, I- um, no one has asked me about it before. I never thought I’d have to explain it.” 

“You don’t have to-,” 

Niall looks up at him, his eyes sharp. “No, I want to. The lines- that’s order. The bright colors, that’s like...chaos. Does that make sense?” 

“It does,” Harry says, “It looks like it hurt.” 

“It didn’t,” Niall replies, his thumb sliding up the palm of Harry’s hand. “Did yours?” 

“The ones on my chest hurt the most,” Harry says. “I got them done in one sitting and almost quit.”

“Can I see?” 

Harry pauses. He understands what’s happening here. They've seen each other shirtless countless times while training together. They’ve seen each other’s tattoos before, but this is different. They’re alone, in Harry’s room, holding hands, and Niall is giving him a look he’s never seen before. That darkened gaze that stirs something different in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

Harry lets go of Niall’s hands and pulls his t-shirt over his head, his breathing shallow as Niall reaches out to touch him. His fingers trace the outline of the roses, and Harry feels goosebumps raise on his skin. Harry feels Niall’s rapid pulse beating in his wrist, can hear the way his breath hitches when he slides his finger across Harry’s collarbones. They've drifted closer on the bed, somehow the space between them barely there anymore. If they leaned in, just a few inches, they could press their lips together. 

Harry thinks about it, lets his mind go for a moment- them kissing, Niall climbing into Harry's lap, running his fingers through his hair. Harry would be gentle, cradling Nialls face in his hands, minding the swelling, cuts, and bruises. 

God, he’s so beautiful. The way his hair falls over his forehead, his perfect peachy skin, his thick eyelashes and kind hearted stare. Everything. All of him. It’s almost alarming that someone with two black eyes and a busted nose can still be so effortlessly dreamy. 

With trembling fingers, Harry reaches out and brushes a thumb over the bruise under Niall’s left eye. “Does it hurt?” 

Niall winces. “A little.” 

“Sorry,” Harry starts to move his hand but Niall stops him, moving into the touch. 

“It's okay,” he says, “painkillers do wonders, haven’t you heard?”

Harry smiles, his heart so full that he feels he could burst. He cups his hand over Niall’s jaw, his thumb ghosting over the soft skin on his cheek.

“Harry,” Niall says, so quiet Harry has to move in closer to hear. “I thought about you a lot last week.” 

“You did?” 

“I thought about how I wish I wasn't such an anxious mess. And how if I wasn't I would have asked you out the second we met. Because I knew then that I-,” 

Harry waits a beat, but can’t help the desperate tone as he asks, “That you what?” 

Niall closes his eyes. “I'm scared shitless that I'll mess this up-,” 

“If you think you're bad then you must think I'm quite the fuck up.” 

A breathless laugh slips out of Niall’s mouth, and he lowers his voice to a whisper. “...you don't even know, do you?” 

“What don't I know?” 

“That there's something about you… that's just…,” 

Niall trails off again, leaving Harry’s heart pounding so hard that it starts to hurt. It’s terrifying. It’s standing at the edge of a cliff, swaying backward and forward, and knowing that jumping would change everything. But, god, if Harry could pause this moment, he would. The warmth radiating off of Niall’s body could feed Harry forever- he’ll never want anything again. But- this is too much. 

‘ _ You will ruin everything _ ,’ that morbid voice hisses.

Harry rolls out of bed so fast he nearly brains himself on the nightstand. Steadying himself, he tries to calm his heart rate as he speaks up.

“Well, I don’t wanna keep you up, I’m sure you’re tired.” 

Niall sits up, confusion evident in his expression. “I’m fine, but if-,” 

“Yeah,” Harry cuts him off, all of sudden realizing how cold it’s gotten in the room. His t-shirt i balled up on the bed, next to Niall’s legs. “Not to be, like, rude or anything. I’m gonna get ready to go to bed in a little while.” 

“No, yeah, totally it’s fine.” Niall stands, starting to pick up all of his food. There’s a still a hopeful glint in his eye as he puts on his shoes. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“See you tomorrow.” 

The second Niall leaves, Harry deflates. He crawls back into the bed and pulls the covers over his body. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he groans. “Why are you like this? God you’re so stupid. How stupid can you be? Just kiss him you fucking idiot.”  

He snatches his phone off the nightstand and looks at it, his thumb hovering over Niall’s contact. He could call. He could ask him to come back, and spend the night. But, he doesn’t. He calls his mom instead.

‘ _ I met someone _ ,’ he wants to say, when she picks up, ‘ _ and I really like him. And I want you to meet him eventually _ .’ 

Instead he says, “I want you to come to my next fight. You and Gemma. And Gemma’s boyfriend too if he wants.”

“Oh, of course!” she coos. “Of course. Are you okay, honey? You sound funny.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, against the tears. “I’m fine.”


	4. Round Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy here we go.

Niall looks good on camera. Harry would even say he has a face made for TV, but that would only confirm the fact that Harry is shamelessly blinded by infatuation.

They’ve texted a few times since getting back to California last week, and neither of them have brought up that night in Harry’s hotel room. It’s been flirty good morning and goodnight texts but nothing to quell the heavy cloud of “what’s next” hanging over his head. It hits Harry that this is the first time in a long time that he’s even had a crush on someone, much longer since anyone actually reciprocated the feelings. Niall doesn’t seem bothered, or even fazed by Harry’s hesitation to kiss him, but he also hasn’t brought up their date and when, or if, they’ll have it. The ball is most definitely in his court, and Harry is just trying his best to play along. 

Last night, Harry got a text around one in the morning. He was awake, regrettably, and seeing Niall’s message made him feel a little less terrible. 

‘ _ Holy shit I’m going to be on live television in like 7 hours??? I’m losing my mind ?’ _

Harry replied, maybe a little too quickly:  _ ‘lol you’ll do fine. also youve been on tv before, like every time you fight.’ _

Harry woke up early, just to watch Niall’s appearance on Mojave’s local news show. His alarm sounded from his nightstand and he pried open his sleep-encrusted eyes, silently scolding himself for the five beers he drank last night. Then he pulled himself out of bed, made coffee, and turned the TV on in the living room.

While Harry has been half-heartedly fighting his downward spiral, Niall has been doing the media rounds as the newly crowned champion. He’s showing off his shiny new belt, laughing with interviewers and journalists, and talking about potential opponents for his first defense. 

Today the interviewer is Marjorie, arguably the most famous television personality in their tiny city. She’s completely charmed by Niall, which isn't surprising. Her eyes have no choice but to light up when Niall smiles at her.

“Honesty, I'm just relieved I can breathe out of my nose again,” Niall is saying. Harry studies his face, at the poor attempt to cover some of his bruises with makeup. He’s clean-shaven, looking young and fresh-faced, and he’s wearing a grey suit that makes him look like the son of a senator. The title belt is sitting on his lap, the light bouncing off the silver and gold. 

Marjorie laughs, reaching over to slap his shoulder. “God, you’re adorable,” she says. “I remember us doing a profile on you when you got signed. We knew you would be champion someday, and now that day is here. How does it feel?” 

“It's just so weird and unbelievable.” Niall pauses and looks down at the belt in his lap. There’s a shy smile on his face, like he’s suddenly afraid to show his teeth. “I didn't think I would ever have this, especially at my age… I feel like I'm just a random kid from a small town that accidentally got good at something.” 

“What’s next?” Marjorie asks. “Any specific plans?”

Niall shrugs. “Nothing is set in stone. One thing I do plan on doing is relaxing for a while before I get back into everything. But other than that,  just media stuff for now.” 

It’ll probably be weeks before he’s back in the gym with real training, especially while his nose is still healing. Niall told Harry as much when they ran into each other last week, the day after they got back into town. They talked, briefly, and of course Harry was too chicken to ask what the possibility of seeing him  _ outside  _ of the gym was. He tried to play it cool, or as nonchalant as possible while his heart tried to jump into his throat, and they promised they’d keep in touch. Harry spent the next two days typing and deleting texts to Niall, and kicking himself over it. How is he supposed to say, over a fucking text message  _ ‘Hey I know this is pathetic but I really miss you even though we just saw each other _ ?’

On screen, Niall is laughing at something, bringing his hand up to his mouth to chew his nails. Harry is taken back to that night in his hotel room, watching Niall nervously bite his thumbnail. He listens to Niall's laugh and imagines them back there, only this time Harry isn’t such a fucking coward. They haven’t talked about it, and Harry doesn’t plan on bringing it up. If Niall can pretend it never happened, then so can Harry. 

“So, about Harry Styles…,” Marjorie starts.

Harry chokes on his coffee and leans forward in his seat, coughing to clear his throat. Niall’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he blinks for a second before finding his voice. “What about him?”

“I’ve heard some…-” Marjorie waves vaguely around her, “ _ Talk _ about you two.” 

Niall blinks again, his mouth opening wordlessly. “I- well, after he came down from San Jose, I figured he could use some new friends here, so we just ended up getting closer over the course of training.” 

Harry lets out the breath he was holding, relieved that it’s the same vague answer Niall gave at the press conference. 

“Oh. So you two are…?”

“...Friends,” Niall finishes, that  _ look _ spreading over his features. That soft smile he gave Harry that night at the bar, when Harry first felt a spark between them and knew, deep down, that he had no fucking chance.

The smile gives Harry all of those familiar warm feelings it usually does, but the word  _ friend  _ bounces around in his head. It stings, he can’t lie. But, they  _ don’t _ have any sort of definitive romantic relationship. If anything, what they have is more on Harry’s end anyway. After dodging his kiss, Harry would completely understand why Niall is unsure about the future of their relationship. So, realistically, Harry shouldn’t be sitting here getting all sore over Niall calling him a  _ ‘friend _ .’ Even if they did have  _ something more _ , Harry wouldn’t expect Niall to talk about it on live TV.

Harry turns the TV off, for the sake of his remaining sanity. He'll watch the clips of it later, most likely whole he's alone in bed and feeling sorry for himself. 

A few hours later, when gets to the gym, he isn’t expecting to see Niall there. It sort of stops him in his tracks, and his thoughts start to race at a mile a minute. Currently, there isn't one clever or charming thought in his brain. All he can think about, on a loop is  _ ‘we’re just friends, we're just friends, we're just friends.’ _ But then Niall is walking across the parking lot towards Harry and Harry’s palms start to sweat.

“ _ Harry _ ,” Niall says, his eyes bright. It sounds like music, the soft melody of it settling in Harry’s chest. And how the hell can they be ‘just friends’ when Niall says his name like  _ that _ ?

“Hey.” Harry sets his bag on the hood of his car and shuts the door. “I saw you on TV this morning.” 

Niall grins. “Yeah, what did you think?” 

Harry grins right back, as Niall leans into his space. “You’re not gonna get too famous for me are you?” 

“I could  _ never _ .” The midday sun looks good on Niall’s skin, bringing out all of his warm undertones. The blue and purple beneath his eyes is slowly fading to a murky greenish yellow- Harry could write sonnets about how the faint freckles look like constellations against the galaxy of bruises.

Harry can barely breathe. “Good.” 

“But, I do have to go.” Niall pokes his lip out in a faux pout. “I gotta be in LA in like two hours and you know how traffic is.” 

“LA? What for?”

Niall shrugs. “More formalities. Meeting with possible sponsors and going to a panel on like… vegan protein bars or something?” 

“Ditch it,” Harry jokes.

He laughs, stepping even closer to Harry. “Wish I could.”

A horn honks from across the lot and Niall turns to look. His manager is standing near the van, pointing at his watch. Groaning, Niall waves him off. “Yeah, I really wish I could. But, I can't so… I'll see you later?” He reaches out touch Harry's elbow, sliding his hand down to fit into Harry's.

Harry nods, because it's all he can muster up. Niall gives him a smile, squeezes his hand, and walks away. “Later,” Harry says, about 30 seconds too late. He shrugs his bag over his shoulder, closes his eyes, and tries to take a deep breath.

-

For an entire week, Harry thinks of nothing but Niall's hands. Things haven't really changed, but everything feels different. They look just a little bit longer, smile just a little softer. It eases Harry's irrational fear that Niall sees him as ‘just a friend.’ 

But, there’s one thing in the way- the timing is truly awful. Niall is unbelievably busy, running around with his team from city to city. It’s only in passing that they see each other, usually when one of them is on the way out and the other is on the way in. The week goes by, and Harry only sees Niall a handful of times. Another week passes and Harry only sees Niall twice. They always seem to be at arm’s length, just far enough away to be out of reach. Niall has apologized, multiple times, for being so busy and tired. Harry can only smile and wait around for things to change. 

For Niall, the press events, signings, and photoshoots are revving up and the endorsement deals are rolling in. Though it’s monopolizing all of his energy and time, Niall does text Harry every time something new and exciting happens. And Harry tries his best to show the same level of excitement, he really does. But, of course, fate’s propensity for putting him in fucked up situations keeps him from being happy for too long. 

While Niall is off being famous, Harry finds out that Craig is struggling to negotiate another fight for him. At their last meeting, Craig told him, verbatim:  _ “I have to be honest. I don’t know what’s next for you. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to start looking for a new contract.” _ Now it’s stuck in Harry’s head like some sadistic, warped cassette tape. It's understandable- most of the lightweight division is focused on the getting a title shot or becoming a number one contender, and Harry is at the bottom of the rankings. It leaves him feeling like somewhat of a gatekeeper, someone the new guy comes in and tries to beat. He’s just the guy that puts people over, while he stays behind and watches someone else become the next big thing. It reminds him how useless he is, how he’s about as useful as fucking gum on the bottom of someone’s shoe. Yet, somehow, he feels that the sooner he accepts that, the better he’ll feel. Or, just normal enough to function. 

Other than drinking, the gym is Harry’s only other source of comfort. But as the days go on, Harry finds it harder and harder to get through his training. Things that used to be easy take twice as much out of him. The ritual of physically pushing himself to the point of feeling numb isn’t working like it usually does, and it leaves him restless and lost. His chest aches, he never seems to catch his breath and, more often than not, he finds himself retreating to the locker room to sit alone. Then, as if on cue, he’ll start to tear up for no discernible reason. And then, that heavy blanket of sadness will wrap itself around his shoulders and weigh him down. When he finally gets home, he’ll collapse on the couch and cry until he’s empty. Then, he’ll pull himself together long enough to drink himself to sleep. 

-

Harry turns off his car and eyes himself in his rearview mirror. At a certain point in Harry’s life, being severely hungover at least once a week became an integral part of his routine. It’s the only thing that keeps him from going overboard everyday- a bad hangover will have him swearing off alcohol for a day or two, before easing himself back into it. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, taking a sip of warm ginger ale. Hopefully he’ll can get out of this thing soon. He’s late but at least he showed up, for what it’s worth. 

It’s a charity event to raise money for wrestling and jiu jitsu programs for local high schools, and both Niall and Harry are scheduled to speak. Before stepping out of his car, his fixes his hair the best he can and hopes it isn’t  _ too _ obvious that he drank an entire pint of vodka last night. The high school kids might be slightly disappointed if they knew that there’s a good 70 percent chance that a career in combat sports will only lead to, or exacerbate alcoholic tendencies.

“Well, here we fucking go,” he mumbles, slamming his door shut. He slowly weaves through the cars in the lot and prays to the universe that his head will stop fucking spinning. When he gets to the entrance of the building, he sees Niall’s car parked up front. He isn’t surprised to see it, but he is surprised to see that Niall is still in it. 

He’s still in the driver’s seat, seatbelt still on, and he has both fists pressed in against his eye sockets. His shoulders heave as he takes deep, open mouthed breaths. 

Harry isn’t the only one struggling. Niall has been excited about his newfound fame, but he isn’t too afraid to admit how overwhelming it is. Every MMA news outlet had an article about Niall walking off stage in the middle of a press conference last week. Harry got a slightly frantic text later that night, in which Niall expressed his worry about being a ‘fuck up.’

‘ _ u couldnt be a fuckup. even if u tried _ ,’ Harry replied, and stopped his drunken fingers before he typed irrelevant nonsense about how perfect and wonderful Niall is.

A knock on the passenger’s side window makes Niall jump, taking his hands away from his face. He looks more tired than Harry has ever seen him, his eyes puffy and dull. With a lackluster smile, he unlocks the door and lets Harry in. “You scared the shit out of me,” he mumbles. 

“Sorry.” Harry looks at the clock on the dashboard. Niall’s speech is in 45 minutes, which means Harry should be backstage mentally preparing for his own. He’d rather be here though, reveling in the first extended moments alone that they’ve had in weeks. “Are you going inside?” 

“Yeah, I just-,” Niall takes a shaky breath and frowns. “I’ve never had this problem before? Public speaking has never freaked me out this much… I started feeling, you know,  _ weird  _ about it on the drive over. And then I started feeling weird about feeling weird. I got here an hour and a half ago and I’ve just been sitting here.”  

Harry nods, understanding. 

Niall continues, bringing his hand up to chew the nail on his index finger. “It's just weird because I never used to get nervous about this stuff before. With assignments in school, I would spend hours on end writing and editing, just to get it perfect. I wouldn’t sleep or eat. And here I am, running on two hours of sleep with an upset stomach and I still don’t feel ready.” 

Silently, Harry offers his hand. Without a second of hesitation, Niall takes it. The warmth of it still makes Harry’s heart skip a beat. He should revel in this feeling too, because he knows it won’t last and might not ever happen again. 

“What if they hate everything I’m saying?” Niall says, in a voice akin to a whisper.

“They’ll love you,” Harry says. “If they don’t like you, then fuck ‘em.” Harry never worried too much about other people liking him- he’s usually too occupied with trying to like himself. 

Niall cracks a smile. “The high school kids too?” 

“Oh, them especially,” Harry says dryly. Niall chuckles and squeezes Harry’s hand. Harry squeezes back, turning to stare through his window. Niall sighs, beginning to tap his fingers against Harry’s knuckles. Harry lets him, relaxing into the seat and wishing he could hold onto this moment forever.  

Days later, Niall is driving down to San Diego for a week of press events, and it leaves Harry feeling particularly lonely. The days drag on, seeming to take forever to end, and then there's just another lonely day ahead. Though they don't have time to see each other, Niall has kept up with texting and calling whenever he gets a moment alone. It's usually early in the morning or late at night, when Harry also happens to be awake, post-nightmare or mid-binge drinking. He lies there and imagines Niall tossing and turning in a big, fluffy hotel bed, reaching for Harry's hand in the dark. 

When they talk it's usually sleepy ramblings, things Harry wishes were sweet nothings. They talk about the weather, about how it's so humid in San Diego, and about how there's never anything good on TV when you're staying at a hotel. Niall mentions, offhandedly, that he wishes Harry was there with him. Of course Harry fixates on it. If he had any energy he would have gotten in his car and driven down to San Diego right away. It's affirming to know that Harry, somehow, brings Niall a form of comfort. In between their innocuous late-night talk, Niall seeks Harry's advice more, looking for ways to deal with all the new things that come with being champion. Harry was never champion, but he's happy to pass along whatever wisdom Niall thinks he has. 

It’s as if he's torn, the two conflicting parts of him ripping him right down the middle. Harry is stuck between blowing him off, because he's definitely bitter, and helping him because...well- Harry can't figure out why he wants to help so much. He knows Niall gets anxious and that this is hard for him, so on the surface he doesn't mind being a part of Niall’s support system. He’ll give Niall all the pep-talks and all the words of encouragement to get through the next interview, or the next live appearance, or press conference. He’ll do it every time, without question, but in the depths of his chest, it pains him because every fiber of his being wishes he was in Niall’s shoes. But the pain is worth it just to hear the smile in Niall’s voice. 

It comes to Harry, far too late, that he's so gone that he’ll shove his own feelings down and bury them forever, just to make Niall happy. It maybe, only slightly, has to do with the fact that Harry wants to kiss him. Maybe they will one day, if Harry never lets on that he's more flawed than Niall will ever know. 

Niall knows that Harry has…  _ baggage _ , as they put it. But, he hasn’t seen it first hand. He hasn’t seen the worst of it. If anything were to happen between them, it'll only be a matter of time before he sees Harry’s true colors, and goes running for the fucking hills. He’ll eventually see that Harry can be just as impulsive and hot-tempered as people think he is, and even more broken, self-defeating, and dysfunctional than anyone has ever seen. So, Harry hides it, and puts on a brave face for the sake of being there for someone he likes so much his entire soul aches with it. If it keeps Niall around, even for just a second longer, Harry would sacrifice anything.

-

When you exist in a constant state of discontent and desolation, it doesn't take a lot to bring you to rock bottom. All the minor things that other people brush off easily weigh heavy on him, sagging his shoulders, making his feet drag. The darkness clouds his vision, making it hard for him to see ahead. There’s a dull pain in his spine, reaching up to his head and throbbing against his skull. He closes his eyes against it, pulling the bed sheet over his head. 

Back to back, Harry found out two more things: He's lost another sponsorship, and the big interview spot he had lined up was given to Niall without telling Harry first. It was sudden, like this kind of news usually is, and it catches him completely off guard. It pulls the rug right out from under him, and he’s been on unsteady feet ever since. He was already spiraling, but this is almost enough to make him want to lock himself in his room with enough booze to end it all.

It's all his fault, of course. He can't blame the companies for moving on to someone who is more exciting, relatable, and  _ charming _ . It's all his fault, but that big green monster called envy is on his back now, digging its claws in and holding on tight. It's a shame, really, that the one person he can talk to about this is the one who's fueling the fire. Knowing Niall, he would probably understand if Harry decided to tell him. But, Harry won’t put him in that situation. How would they move on if Harry admitted that he gets a bitter taste in his mouth every time he thinks of all the praise Niall gets? How can they even be friends if Harry will inevitably compare his success to Niall’s? How would Niall react if Harry admitted how pushed aside and forgotten he feels?

As Harry goes to bed, alone, unabashedly wishing Niall was by his side, he tells himself he won't make this Niall's problem. It’s not Niall’s fault that Harry can’t deal with being alone. It’s not his fault that Harry can’t cope without drinking. It’s not his fault that Harry lets anger take over too easily, and has effectively ruined his career because of it. Niall is living the dream. He deserves this more than anyone, especially more than Harry. And Harry is just an insecure little boy with a penchant for fucking things up. That will never change, no matter how hard he tries. 

On Harry’s third day in bed, Niall calls him. Niall's voice cheers him up to some extent, but Harry is so deep in his pit of despair that no one else should throw themselves in just to save him. He'll have to claw his way out alone. 

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to call you,” Niall says. “I haven’t seen you in a while.” 

By ‘a while,’ he means a full week. They haven't talked either, which Harry hasn't decided how he feels about yet. On one hand, he's desperate for Niall's attention and sweet voice lulling him to sleep, and on the other hand he’s so drunk he can barely formulate a sentence. Currently, he's a worse conversationalist than usual. “You’ve been busy.“ 

“Yeah, I know it’s been non-stop craziness these past few weeks. But, I didn’t see you at the gym either when I was in this week. What’s going on?” 

“Oh, you know…” Harry looks around at his dark room, at the dirty bedding, food wrappers and shot glasses encrusted to his nightstand. “Just been hanging out at home.” 

“...is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry answers, automatically. It’s the answer he usually has locked and loaded. “Just needed a break, I think.” By break, he means ignoring most phone calls, drinking straight from a 33 ounce bottle of gin, and closing the curtains to shut out the sunlight. 

“Oh,” Niall pauses. It’s quiet where he is, like maybe he’s alone somewhere, taking a break from all the madness. “Just thought I'd check… I was kinda getting worried about you. When I sent you a text yesterday, you didn't respond.” 

“Nothing to worry about, I'm fine,” Harry says again, willing it to be true. 

There’s silence on the other end for about a full minute, and Harry’s bottle is too empty for him to come up with anything worth saying.

“Are you going to that thing in LA?” Niall asks. “The press conference thing?” 

Harry nods and takes a long drink from the bottle, then remembers Niall can’t see him. “I’m contractually obligated to.” 

“Right, of course. Well, I have to go a day early. Otherwise, I’d ask if you wanted to carpool with me.” 

Harry can picture it sort of, Niall driving with the windows down and the wind whipping through his hair and Harry sitting in the passenger’s seat with his hand on Niall's thigh- 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he can feel a wry smile on his lips. “I’ll make it there fine on my own, I think.” 

“Hey,” Niall says, his tone softening. “I wanted to say thanks for all the help lately. Kinda sucks that I haven't been able to make time for us to actually hang out. But if you ever need me for anything, I'm here.” 

God he's so sweet, Harry thinks. He's making this much harder than it needs to be. “I'm fine,” Harry says for the third time, knowing very well that neither of them believe it. 

-

It takes Harry an hour to get out of bed and get dressed. His stomach is empty, and he’s so fucking hungry but the actual thought of eating makes his stomach turn. His head is heavy as he lifts it from his pillow, and the idea that he has to get up and face the world is not ideal. If he could, he’d skip the stupid press conference all together. It’s an event that only exists to instigate fighters and sell future pay-per-views, and Harry is supposed to get on stage and give them everything they need for a good sound bite or clip. He’s supposed to look bored and roll his eyes when people ask him questions, and call out an unsuspecting fighter. And when he inevitably gets angry, he’s supposed to flip a table and storm out. That is his reputation, after all. Craig sees this as another opportunity for Harry to show how  _ charming _ he is. Harry barely has the energy to lift the muscles in his face to fake a smile, much less talk in front of cameras and an auditorium full of people. It's exhausting to even consider. Everything is fuzzy around the edges, and the idea of getting back into bed and letting more days pass him by is all too tempting.

It's conflicting, wanting Niall to wrap him up in a hug while simultaneously realizing he isn't good enough for that affection. Why should anyone help Harry if he can’t even help himself?

The drive to LA is long and arduous. Harry’s not too proud of the fact that he takes a few sips of his flask while he's behind the wheel. He’s even less proud of stopping at a liquor store near the venue to buy gum and a bottle of beer. By the time he’s in the parking lot, chugging the bitter drink in his car, his self-respect is nowhere to be found. He stumbles out of his car, belching, and pops a piece of gum in his mouth as he makes his way to the entrance of the building.

Harry’s flask sloshes around in his pocket as he shuffles into the backstage area. Craig is already there, handing Harry a stack of index cards. “Are these fucking  _ talking points _ ?” Harry asks him. 

“I thought they’d be helpful.”

Harry shoves them back into Craig’s hand. “I’m good.”

“Hey, you made it.”

Niall’s voice drifts into the room and Harry turns to find it, swaying a little as he moves. “Hey.”

“You ready?” Niall asks. He looks good, as usual. The bruises on his face are almost faded, and the stubble on his cheeks is already growing back. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Harry says, trying his best to smile for Niall’s sake. 

“I’m nervous,” Niall admits, freely. In front of everyone, he steps close and takes Harry’s hand. For a second, Harry is worried that he reeks of alcohol. “Are you not nervous?”

“I don’t care enough to be nervous,” Harry says, and Niall laughs. The way the corners of his eyes crinkle could quite literally make Harry throw up. This is going to be hard. This is going to be so fucking hard. 

By the time Harry gets up on the panel, he’s four shots deep. He trips going up the stairs, pops another stick of gum in his mouth, and hopes no one can smell his breath through the spearmint. 

Niall moves from his seat to sit next to Harry, grinning from ear to ear as he greets him. “We meet again,” Niall jokes.

Harry gives his best smile in return, though it feels more like a grimace. He adjusts the microphone on the table and squints at all of the lights on him. There’s an ache behind his eyes that won’t go away and he’s tempted to pull his flask out right here in front of the cameras pointed at him. 

Soon after the panel starts, Harry zones out and all the noise fades into a quiet buzz. This is the last place he wants to be. Harry rifles through his mind, trying to find some meaning to what he’s doing, and finds nothing. This is pointless. This spectacle won’t do anything for him. Maybe the fight game, in general, just isn’t for him. Craig is wrong. Harry should stop trying- it’s not worth looking for a new contract or trying to sell himself to a company that doesn’t give a fuck about him. He should have listened to his mother and paid more attention in school. He should have listened to his friends and became a skater. Better yet, he should have jumped off an overpass when he was 16, and ended this all before it even started. 

“Psst.” Niall nudges Harry’s knee with his. 

Blinking, Harry comes to. “Hm?”

Niall nods at the crowd and Harry hears it this time. 

“Styles?”

“Yeah,” Harry says stupidly, looking for the voice in the crowd that said his name. 

There’s a person standing up, near a barricade, with a microphone in hand. “Harry, how do you feel about there being a talent gap in the lightweight division? Do you think that will affect whether more fighters move up to welterweight or down to featherweight?” 

Harry’s mouth is unbelievably dry as he starts to speak, and it’s all he can think about. The edges of the room blur every time he blinks. “Um, um, I’m sorry what was the question?” 

“What do you think the future of the lightweight division will be like? Are you worried that too many people will go up or down in weight?” 

Now, while he didn’t quite hear the first question, he’s positive this isn’t the same question as before. Through the blur of the lights, Harry can see all the eyes on him. Reporters, fans, important people that can make things happen for him. He chokes, his throat closing up. 

“Harry?” Niall’s voice drifts in one ear and out of the other. 

“Um,” he says, his lips brushing the microphone. He winces when the feedback sounds in the speakers. “I think- I don’t know, like lightweight fighters they’re-,” 

Niall clears his throat, cutting in to help Harry out, “I think he’s trying to say that-,” 

Harry holds up his hand to stop him. “No, I got it, I got it. Just-,” 

“Are you sure?” 

It’s not a condescending tone, of course. Niall would never humiliate Harry like that. But, to outsiders, it reads the same. Harry is a stupid fuck-up and Niall is perfection in human form, swooping in to save the day. Laughter erupts in the crowd and immediately, white hot embarrassment floods him. Harry cares more than he thought, apparently. 

It doesn’t take much contemplation before Harry is up and out of his seat, walking down the steps and out of the room. In the lobby, he pulls his flask from his pocket and downs the rest of the whiskey. It burns going down and he’s vaguely aware that there are people staring, but it’s not nearly as painful and embarrassing as having an auditorium full of people laugh at you. 

“Harry, wait.”

Harry doesn’t turn around but he stops, attempting to shove his flask back in his pocket with clumsy fingers. Suddenly, Niall is in front of him, putting a hand on his chest to stop him. 

“Hey, what's going on?” 

Harry looks past him. He can’t- won’t look him in the eye like this. “Nothing.” 

“Is something wrong?” 

“Me, apparently,” Harry says, staring ahead through the floor to ceiling windows. “I’m wrong. I’m all wrong.” 

“What? What are you-,” There’s a desperation in his voice that Harry can’t handle. 

“Don’t bother. Let me fuck this up on my own, alright?” 

“I don’t even-...Harry, are you  _ drunk _ ?” 

Harry finally looks at him and the disappointment in his eyes says it all. This is never going to happen. This would be far too good to be true anyway. What has he done to deserve anything as good as Niall? What has he done to deserve anything good at all? He's nothing and a nobody. The sooner everyone else realizes it, the better. Everything he touches turns to shit. His career. His relationships. Everything. It's inevitable. He's drunk in public, and his filter is long gone, his thoughts going a mile a minute. He feels like his skin is too tight, like he could burst out of it and walk around with his bloody, pulsating muscles on display. 

“Yeah, and what about it? Gonna judge me for that too?” 

When Harry shrugs off Niall’s touch, Niall grabs Harry’s wrist instead. “I’m not judging you, I just want to help-,” 

Without thinking, the words tumble out of him. It’s the first thing that comes to mind and suddenly he feels like if he doesn’t say it, he’ll implode. He spits the words out, in a low, harsh tone. “Listen, I’m not your fucking charity case.”

A bewildered frown replaces the look of concern on Niall’s face and he steps back, dropping Harry’s wrist. Harry misses the touch already, but he sucks it up. This is what he wants. “ _ What _ ?”

“I don't need your help. For anything,” Harry says, which is a blatant lie. It’s the worst lie he’s ever told. He needs Niall; he’s Harry’s only friend. He  _ was _ , anyway. “Leave me alone.” He regrets the words the second they leave his mouth. The hurt in Niall’s eyes stings him, somewhere deep in his lungs like he’s breathing in glass. 

Storming out of the venue, Harry doesn’t look back. When he gets in his car, he fumbles with his keys before it gets in in the ignition. He’s trembling and his limbs are heavy. The tears are coming fast, and he’s almost angry that he can’t control them. “Fuck,” he mutters, putting the car in reverse. He backs out and promptly hits a metal barricade. “ _ Fuck,”  _ he repeats, peeling out of parking lot with his bumper scraping the pavement. 

The lump in his throat grows in size and he only gets as far as the end of the street before he’s pulling over. In front of him, he can see signs for the freeway. 

He could leave town. He could drive to the airport, get on a plane, and get the fuck out of here. It’s not the first time he’s done it. A fresh start, around people he hasn’t tainted with his presence. Or, he could leave forever. He could go to the beach, walk into the water and let the current take him. That idea sits with him, and he sits with it, letting it settle in his gut. 

Minutes, maybe more, pass and a sickening feeling starts to climb up his throat. It’s like he swallowed a thick, viscous tar and it’s choking him on the way back up. He looks at his reflection in the rearview mirror, “God, I hate you… I hate you so fucking much. You ruin everything-,” He chokes, his voice wet as he tries to continue. Tears blur his vision but he still sees his ugly, red face. “I can’t fucking stand you.” 

He slams his fist against the steering wheel and a scream rips through him, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” He grits his teeth and slams his fist again, savoring the pain that shoots up his arm. Then he does it again, and again, and again until his fist is throbbing. Then, he stops. He rests his head against the steering wheel and lets the sobs rack his body. 

Then it comes, that numb feeling he was begging for. It hits him like a brick and dries up all of his tears. 

-

Harry skips two gym sessions in a row, and decidedly does not tell Craig or Kevin that his hand might be sprained. When Craig finally calls him up with the threat of getting fired, Harry drags himself out of his apartment. 

Last night, he drank a bottle of whiskey and scrolled through 78 pages of an MMA forum, looking for another reason to feel sorry for himself. Fans have a lot to say (mostly what Harry already knows- that he’s screwed up and needs “serious help”), but the journalists have been silent. Maybe, by some miracle, they’ve realized that Harry is a human being with real feelings, and not just clickbait material. That would truly be something.

He hasn’t been sleeping, or eating, or doing much of anything other than lying in bed and contemplating whether anything is worth his effort anymore. He’ll never outrun his reputation, and he’ll never outrun his insecurities and self-criticism. He’ll never, ever get out of his head long enough to do anything good. He won’t be champion, and Niall will never love him. So, he drinks, and his closed journal sits on his nightstand and mocks him.

Everything has been quiet. It’s the kind of silence that happens right before he plummets, that lurching, weightless feeling in his gut that tells him he’s about to hit the bottom hard and fast. 

It’s nearing ten at night when Harry gets to the gym, and the place is mostly empty. The silence follows him through the gym, trailing behind him like weights around his ankles. He keeps his head down, the way he usually does when he’s cloaked in the shame of public embarrassment.

Harry steps into the locker room, and because his luck is notoriously bad, he runs right into Niall. They literally bump shoulders, and Niall steps back, ready to apologize. The second he sees it’s Harry, he stops. They share a look, one with too many unsaid words, and Niall opens his mouth to say something but Harry doesn’t let him.

“Don’t,” he says.

The thing is, Harry is embarrassed. If he wasn’t forced to be here, he wouldn’t be here. But, he’s here, and he wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d never see Niall again. But, he didn’t expect it’d be this hard to look him in the eye. So, he’ll make this easy for both of them, like ripping off a bandaid. He pushes past Niall without another word, and turns his back so he can’t see Niall’s face. Easy, he thinks. This is easy.

There’s a part of him, however small, that’s kicking and screaming in protest. Something about ‘following your heart’ never sat right with Harry though. He knows too much to follow his heart. If he's fucking up this early on, they have no chance of making it as anything, not even friends. This is his problem, he reminds himself, not Niall’s. He won’t put him through this. Harry will fuck up again and again, without fail. He  _ will  _ let Niall down and he will end up alone.

When he leaves the locker room, Niall is nowhere to be seen. 

Kevin meets Harry at the treadmills and instructs Harry to start his cardio warm-up. He leans against the front of the machine, reaching over the control panel to bump up the speed a few notches. “Did you hear?”

“What?” Harry picks up his pace, already panting a little.

“Peterson dropped out of the title fight. Broke his fucking thumb or something.” 

“Okay.” He looks down at the speed indicator. It’s not even that fast- why does it feel like his chest is about to explode?

Kevin frowns. “Okay? So, they’re looking for someone to fight Davis for the interim title.” 

Harry takes a drink from his water bottle and tries to take a deep breath. “So?” 

“So, that could be you.”

If Harry could laugh, he would. “Yeah, right.” 

“Look, don’t give me that. That’s why I’ve been trying to get you in here more. You gotta stay ready.” 

Harry thinks about it, for about a split second. Then, he remembers he can’t ever have nice things. “Whatever,” he says, too tired to argue. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Kevin says. He bumps the speed up on Harry’s treadmill even more, much to Harry’s dismay. “Fifteen minutes, then meet me at the heavy bags, alright?” 

Harry nods, reaching for his headphones. When something aggressive and loud is pumping through the earbuds, he can push himself a little harder. Fifteen minutes passes quickly, and he steps off the treadmill on unsteady feet. The dizziness returns with a vengeance, and he fights it because he has to. As futile as it feels, he knows that if he doesn’t have this then he has nothing at all.

Halfway through his his circuit, he’s so light headed he can barely stand up straight. 

“You alright?” Kevin asks. 

“Fine,” Harry says, he points his thumb towards the locker room. “Gonna take a five.”

Stepping into the bright fluorescent lights of the locker room does nothing to help his lightheadedness. He closes his eyes, and his head spins. With about three seconds to spare, he rushes into a restroom stall, drops to his knees and empties all the contents of his stomach- apple flavored whiskey from this afternoon, a stale bagel that he ate his car an hour ago, and bile. He slumps next to the toilet, admittedly feeling much better. Still, when he steps back out onto the gym floor, Kevin sees his face and tells him to go home.

Unsurprisingly, when Harry gets home, drops himself on the couch and checks his phone, there’s a text waiting for him.

_ ‘hey I'm sorry if I did or said something wrong. Im just confused because I thought we were at least friends? I honestly dont know what I did wrong, but Im willing to talk about it if you are.’ _

Harry waits to reply, even though he knows there’s no saving this. This is beyond repair. 

Cracking open a bottle of beer, he types out his response with one hand.  _ ‘no. I said to leave me alone, and I meant it.’ _

And, Niall does leave him alone. He doesn't say a word to him, doesn't text, and doesn't even look his way for the next two weeks. It hurts more than anything he's ever done, leaving a twisting, burning pain in his chest that won’t go away, but he brought this on himself. 

This isn't the first time Harry has actively tried to bury an entire relationship and it probably won’t be the last. There have been people- potential friends, partners, and colleagues that have had the misfortune of seeing little bits of pieces of him. They were smart enough to stay gone when Harry pushed them away. Niall has seen more of Harry than anyone has, and if he's smart he'd stay away too.

Suddenly, it's August, and Harry hasn't spoken to Niall in 17 days. Laying awake at night, thinking about him, gets easier when Harry is drunk. 

It's a Tuesday morning, Harry is hungover (to the surprise of no one) and has been in the gym for all of 60 seconds before Louis and Liam are cornering him in the locker room.

“Can I help you?” Harry asks, opening up his locker.

Louis crosses his arms, in a poor attempt to look intimidating. It's hard, when he's barely over 5’8”. “What the fuck did you do?” 

“I do a lot of stupid shit,” Harry answers, easily, turning his back on them. 

Liam speaks up now, his tone much less threatening. “You hurt his feelings.” 

Harry turns back to them now, gloves in hand. “I’m sorry?” 

“Tell  _ him _ that, shithead.” Louis spits, then shoves Harry hard in the chest, sending him into the locker. It catches him off balance more than anything, but it still sends that familiar spark of anger through his veins. 

Two things stop him from flying off the handle: his sheer lack of energy, and the fact that it wouldn’t bode well for Harry to kick the absolute shit out of Niall’s best friends. 

Liam puts a hand on Louis’ shoulder, forcing him back a few steps. There’s a fire in his eyes that he’s familiar with it. The kind that can be dangerous if left unattended. 

“Walk away,” Harry tells him. “Now.” 

Louis puffs out his chest a little more, but since he knows what’s best, he walks away. Liam follows behind him, sending Harry an apologetic look over his shoulder. 

Once Harry is alone, he turns and rams his fist into his locker. The blow leaves a dent in the metal and his knuckles sore. He drops himself onto the bench, his heart still racing, and starts the slow process of wrapping his hands. 

-

Harry turns on the faucet and lets the water run. His bloodied hands leave drops and smears of crimson in their wake. He sticks both hands under the faucet and watches the slick blood drip from his fingertips. As he reaches for the soap, the blood keeps dripping, starting to pour out from the center of his palm. With the soap in his hands, he scrubs and scrubs but it keeps rushing out of his palms until his hands are covered completely in thick, viscous blood.

Abandoning the soap, he leaves the restroom and suddenly he’s back in the bar again. The one he had no business being in. It’s the same order of events every time he relives it, exactly the same way it happened last January. He’s keyed up and feeling especially sorry for himself after breaking his sobriety the night before. There’s a guy from his gym with a bark bigger than his bite- he’s been pushing Harry’s buttons for months, instigating, and rubbing Harry’s last loss in his face. After trying to take the high road for so long, Harry is unhinged and reckless. It’s the kind of anger that makes it hard to see past a certain point- all he sees is red and white hot rage that flashes in his eyes. It’s not the kind of anger that he can sit with for long. And he knows this is the kind of anger that could completely destroy him, but there’s no turning back from this point. If this is the way he has to go out, then so be it. 

Harry doesn’t remember what the guy says to him on this particular night, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. Any excuse to jump on him and make him bleed is good enough.

The bar floor is concrete, bruising Harry’s knees as they go down. He straddles the guy’s waist, cocks his fist back and drives it down against his nose. Just the first punch knocks him out cold, but Harry doesn’t stop. He hits him again, feeling teeth scrape against his knuckles. And again, breaking the skin on his cheekbone. Again, even harder, crushing bone under his fist. The blood spurts up onto Harry’s face, warm on his skin, and it slips under his knuckles when he brings his fist down against the man’s temple. The loud crack echoes in his ears- 

Then, he's back in the restroom, scrubbing blood off his hands.

Harry wakes up in a cold sweat, his mouth dry. He’s panting as he sits up, looking at his hands. They’re clean, but the memories of last year are fresh in his mind. Cut up knuckles and his blood mixed with someone else’s, a ringing in his ears, and adrenaline pumping through him like battery acid.

Underneath his pillow, his phone buzzes. There’s a voicemail and four unanswered text messages on the screen, two of which he saw earlier. One from Craig, telling Harry to answer his fucking phone, and one from his mom, telling him to call her. The two new ones are from Niall, sent just seconds ago, at 4:55 A.M.

‘ _ hey i can’t sleep’ _

_ ‘i know you dont wanna talk to me and i’m still wondering why. i wanna respect your decision but i can’t say i dont miss talking to you. feel free to ignore this, just know im still thinking about you.’ _

Harry reads the messages twice, and then a third time, before deleting them. It feels like someone has kicked him in the throat. 

He calls his voicemail and listens to the new message, taking in a shuddering breath. 

“ _ Hey it’s Craig. I’ve been trying to meet but you’re blowing me off… Listen, I tried my best to get you into the interim fight, but they went with someone else. We can talk more about it when you finally show up to meetings but basically the company doesn’t want to pushed someone with a…, um, varied past. Anyway, call me back.” _

Another day, another let down. Again, Harry isn’t surprised. Disappointments like this will follow him for the rest of his life.

After listening to the message, Harry reaches for his journal on the nightstand, turns to a blank page and scribbles the date and time at the top. The blank page stares back at him for a few minutes before the words start pouring out of him. Running on two hours of sleep, his thoughts move faster than the pen and he struggles to keep up, his hand shaking.

_ ‘I need to leave. There’s nothing left. Falling is inescapable. How am I so empty and full at the same time? I’ll open myself up, rip my skin apart just feel something… and it’s always been inevitable that’d I’d go too far, cut too deep and find solace in that feeling of fading away… goodnight‘ _

Placing the journal back on the nightstand, he picks up his phone and sends a text to his mom. 

_ ‘I love you,’ _ he sends, and lies down, pulling the covers over his head.

Hours past, and he finds no rest. There’s something bristling inside of him, crawling under his skin and making his fingers itch for something sharp. 

At 10 the restless energy in his bones pulls him out of bed. He gets himself together and heads to the gym. It could be the last time, he thinks, as he walks through the door.

Halfway through his circuit, at 11:30, he’s almost worn out enough to collapse. The restlessness hasn’t left but at least the soreness in his muscles distracts from it. He retreats to the locker room and packs his gym bag. For the last time, he thinks again. 

“Hey.”

Liam walks into the locker room drops himself next to Harry.

Harry doesn’t respond, doesn’t even lift his gaze to look Liam in the eye.

Liam continues, not put off by the lack of reply. “I wanted to say sorry about the other day. Louis can get kind of…  _ overprotective,  _ to put it nicely.” 

Harry gives him a hum in response, stuffing his gloves, hand wraps, and water bottles into his bag.

“Look, I'm not gonna pretend that Niall didn't ask me to check on you,” Liam says. The mention of Niall stops Harry for a second, makes his heart stutter. “So, I'm gonna come right out and say it. He misses you and wants to know how you're doing.” 

“Fine,” Harry gives him, zipping his bag. 

“Are you really?” Liam asks. “ _ Really? _ ”

Harry stands up, pulling the bag over his shoulder. “Does it matter? Honestly. Does it matter if I’m fine or if you believe me when I say it? I don’t think so. None of this matters. It’s all a waste of time.”  _ I’m a waste of time _ , Harry adds, silently. 

Liam frowns, eying Harry’s empty locker. “What do you mean?” 

Harry shrugs, turning to leave the room. “Whatever. Just… whatever.”

At home, there’s a few half emptied bottles of liquor waiting for him. There’s nothing left inside of him as he settles on his couch, sipping warm vodka. He thinks he’s tired, above all. There’s no more anger, or sadness. Just nothingness. Numb. He begged for this- he wanted this so much. Now, it’s here and he’s begging to feel something. 

As if on cue, his phone starts to vibrate in his pocket. Taking it out, he sees it’s a call from Niall. He forwards the call without second guessing it, turns off his phone, and shoves it back into his pocket. 

After chugging down the last of the vodka, he starts right in on the rum. Sometime during the rum, he falls asleep on the couch, sprawled out with the empty bottle nestled under his arm. 

He wakes up in a daze about seven hours later, the alcohol still in his system. The sun is setting, filtering light through his curtains. Harry finishes the rum and watches the light fade from deep yellow to a warm golden color, until the room is dark. In the darkness, he stumbles to the kitchen and finishes the two beers left in his fridge, grabs his keys and heads outside to his car. 

He drives until there’s nothing but dirt and mountain ranges in the distance, until there’s no light except for the moon and those stupid stars he spilled his soul to write about. It feels like a lifetime ago, seeing Niall for the first time and knowing that his starry eyes would haunt him forever.

Harry pulls off the road and into the dirt, driving past some brush and debilitated trees to park his car. First, he takes his flask out of the center console and screws open the top. The liquid burns going down, and he revels in it. Next, he takes his phone out of his pocket and turns it on. While he slept, he missed six more calls from Niall, one from Craig, one from Kevin, and one from an unknown number. A text, from the same unknown number, reads:  _ ‘hey its Louis. sorry im a piece of shit, i just care about niall alot. please dont do anything fuckin stupid.’ _

Finally, Harry takes the pocket knife out of his glove box and flicks it open. The light from the moon bouncing off the blade is one of the most fascinating things he’s ever seen. 

Harry sits in his car for an indeterminate amount of time and lets his phone vibrate in his lap. Two more missed calls, four more text messages. 

The edge of the blade teases along the delicate skin of his wrist and up his forearm. Harry pictures the blade pressing in, the blood spilling out and down his arm in gorgeous tendrils. There would be relief, he thinks. Finally. He’d close his eyes, and wait. 

Through the windshield, the night sky is clear and dark. The moon is big and bright, casting a white light on the entire desert. There’s nothing, for miles and miles, and it captivates Harry. He stares so long into the distance that his eyes start to adjust to the dark. He can almost make out exactly where the horizon meets the valley and long stretches of dirt. Flicking his gaze up to the rear view mirror, he looks at his eyes. Vacant. 

It’s either the alcohol or his overall emotional state, but he feels eerily calm. Pressing the blade a little harder into his arm, he finally feels the skin break. It’s a superficial cut, one to test his will, but the warm blood rushes to the surface quickly. He drops the knife and places his hand over the cut to stop the bleeding. It seeps through his fingers and he closes his eyes, swearing he feels his heart rate slowing.

Then, he hears a car behind him. Opening his eyes, he sees headlights sweep across the rear of his car. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, lifting his hand from his arm. The bleeding has already stopped, but the blood makes it look worse than it is. He does his best to wipe the blood away, dragging his hands down the front of his jeans. Before stumbling out of the car, he slips the knife into his pocket.

“You’re bleeding,” Niall says, approaching Harry slowly. There are deep, dark circles under his eyes that rival Harry’s.

Harry shrugs. “So?”

“And you’re drunk,” he says, stopping about a foot away. 

“Yeah what about it?” Harry says, his tone flat. 

“You can't do shit like this,” Niall sighs, “Like, just running off and hiding.” 

“This is better than attacking someone, right?” 

Niall says nothing, so Harry goes on, slowing ripping himself open for Niall to see. “Am I wrong? This is better than blowing up and taking it out on everyone else. It's  _ my  _ fault I'm like this. If I need to fuck off and never come back, that's my choice, my decision to make and it's better for everyone else.” 

Niall shakes his head, stepping closer. “Harry don't..it's not- you're not-,” 

Harry’s voice is steady, level. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t have to energy to raise his voice. “Just be quiet. Don't try and talk me out of anything. You of all people should understand that when your brain is fucked up- when you know how you  _ should _ act but can't fucking do it- you have to find ways to cope.” 

Niall interjects, his brow knit in a confused frown. “Harry, this isn't-,” 

“And I'm trying. God, I'm fucking trying. I'm just tested, every single god damned day and I'm supposed to just hold it in? It's like nothing works- everything I do or try is useless. I always end up back here.” Harry can’t stop the words from coming now, all the things he’s wanted to say but held back out of fear of showing everyone how weak and broken he is. “Being champion, or at least being considered, is all I've ever wanted for myself… fighting is the only thing I'm good at and if people don't recognize the work I put in, and it doesn't even make me feel good anymore then what the fuck is it all for? You think I like to fight? You think I like starving and pushing myself and exhausting myself? Exposing myself to fucking brain damage?  _ Fuck no _ . I do it because there is nothing else in this world I could possibly do to make money other than break my back doing shitty construction jobs or flip burgers in a kitchen for the rest of my life. I do it because I  _ need  _ it. If I didn’t have this, I’d be dead or in prison. That wasn’t a  _ joke _ . This is my only outlet. This is actually life or death for me. If I didn’t have this, I would have-” Harry stops, sucking in a breath that feels like needles in his throat. 

“Harry,” Niall says, his voice soft. He moves forward, reaching for Harry’s hand.

Harry flinches out of Niall’s grasp, shaking his head. “And  _ you _ . You come along. The golden boy of the company. So perfect and pristine. Everyone loves you-” 

Niall gives Harry a bewildered look. “ _ What-? _ ” 

“You know it. Everyone knows it.” 

Niall holds up both his hands, in attempt to yield Harry’s rambling. “Harry. Stop while you’re ahead.” 

Harry groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? Just let me be the fuck up that everyone knows I am. You’re wasting your time. Go do something better and more worthwhile than this, Mr. Perfect.” 

For a minute, Niall doesn’t say anything. And for a minute, Harry thinks he’s won. He stares Niall down, daring him to take this ridiculous fucking situation on.

“Look,” Niall starts, not backing down. “I’m sorry you’re so bitter because you fucked up and won’t get your head out of your ass long enough to even  _ try  _ to fix it. But, don’t even go there. You  _ know _ I’m not perfect. You know I'm barely managing. Even before this, I would wake up and give myself a fucking pep-talk before leaving my house. And now, it’s so much worse. Suddenly important people want to talk to me- more people know my name and now I have an  _ image _ . Jesus Christ. I'm  _ terrified _ . It feels like a dream that I'll wake up from any second. That's not a good feeling. It's scary to believe that this could all end in a heartbeat, but-” 

“Oh  _ boo hoo _ .” Harry waves him off, rolling his eyes. “Are you scared of being a public figure? A household name in MMA? A fucking legend? People would kill for your position, and here you are-” 

Niall bites back, quickly. “Who said I didn't appreciate it? I'm grateful for all the opportunities I've had. That doesn't make it any less scary.” 

“Why don't you just suck it up?” Harry slurs. “You never see me complaining, and I've gotten the shit end of the stick over and over.” Both lies, of course. Harry complains all the fucking time, just not out loud. And when it comes to getting the shitty end of the stick, he should be grateful he’s gotten this far with his career. He should be grateful he didn't stick a gun in his mouth or jump off a bridge five years ago. He could have opened a vein when he was 15, gotten it over with before he turned into a gutless piece of shit. Now, the desire is just festering. 

Niall shifts on his feet, visibly uncomfortable, but Harry keeps going. He’s disgusted with himself but he can’t stop now. This is what he does. He pushes people away. Sabotage in the worst way. “Speechless? I don’t think I’ve ever seen that on you.” 

“Jesus, Harry just shut up!” 

For just a second, Harry is taken aback. Then, he remembers he’s not supposed to care. Still, he can’t think of anything to say.

There’s frustration and indignation in Niall’s voice that Harry has never heard before. “I know it’s been hard and I know you’re going through something but that’s no excuse to be  _ mean _ . You are being so fucking  _ stupid _ right now. I hate to say it, but it’s true. What are you looking to accomplish by insulting me? Not to be a dick, but I didn’t have to come out here to find you.” 

“You’re right, you didn’t.”  Harry thinks his job is done here. Feelings hurt just enough for him to cry himself to sleep tonight and it's his own doing. He turns, reaching for the handle of his car door.  _ Maybe not tonight, _ he thinks,  _ I’ll get this low again and maybe then _ -

Suddenly, Niall is in front of him, blocking the door. “You’re not driving home like this.” 

Harry blinks at him. “Says who?” 

Niall doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t budge, so Harry steps to the side to grab the door handle. Niall puts a hand on Harry’s chest and shoves him back, sending Harry stumbling backwards on clumsy feet. His face heats up, anger beginning to seep into his blood. For a minute, they just look at each other, at a crossroads he never thought he’d have with Niall.

“I can stand here all night,” Niall says, which only pisses Harry off even more. Harry bolts for the door, thinking that if he has to go through Niall then he’ll do it.

Niall backs himself into the side of the car and catches Harry by the shoulders, “Harry,” he says, a hint of a warning in his voice. “I don't wanna fight you, but I will if I have to.” 

Harry swallows the lump in his throat, bringing one hand to grab onto the front of Niall’s shirt and the other to the back of his neck. He searches Niall’s eyes, not finding one ounce of fear. “Listen to me. You do not want to fight me. You will lose. Every single time.” 

There’s a beat, then they both move at the same time. Harry shoves forward and Niall uses that momentum to his advantage- he lets go of Harry’s shoulders, only to press one hand to the back of his head and fold him over at the waist. Harry moves to turn out of the grasp, but Niall is too fast. He tucks Harry’s head under his left armpit, slipping his left arm under Harry’s chin and the other clasping around to help lock the guillotine choke in. It’s embarrassing how fast Harry thinks about tapping. Harry struggles to find his breath, trying to fight his way out of the choke. He’s weak and sloppy, no fight left in him. Niall squeezes harder, cranking the choke and straightening out to press his forearm against Harry’s windpipe. Harry finds himself tapping Niall’s leg, his vision going white. Before he can decide whether or not he wants to hit him, Niall releases the choke, hooks both arms under Harry’s, trips him on the right, and uses the weight of both their bodies to take Harry to the ground. Harry's back hits the hard dirt road with so much force, it knocks the wind right out of his lungs. He tries to scramble up, but Niall is stronger. He passes Harry's guard and gets full mount, straddling Harry’s waist. Harry tries to sit up but Niall pushes him back down, sending his shoulders back into the dirt. 

Coughing, Harry gives up, not too proud to admit he lost. Looking up at Niall, he finally realizes that he’s being a difficult person, ignoring the help that’s right in front of him once again. Panting, Harry asks him again, “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” It comes out whiny, almost a cry. 

Niall’s eyes are wild, desperate even. “I can’t leave you alone because I fucking care about you! I want you around! Is that not obvious by now?” 

“You shouldn’t- I’m a loser,” Harry chokes out. “I'm too sad and stupid. I can’t do anything right. I fuck everything up. I fucked this up, just like I knew I would-,” 

“Don’t-,” Niall clenches his jaw against his tears, dragging his sleeve over his face to wipe them away before they fall. “Christ, you are literally the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.” He takes a deep, shaky breath and closes his eyes, tilting his head up to take a deeper one. 

“I- I was so worried driving over,” Niall says, his voice wet. “I knew you were drunk. I just - I knew it and I didn’t want to think about it, but I couldn’t stop. No one had heard from you. So, I came out here and thank god I found you. Because I don’t know what I would have done if-” Niall stops and sucks in another forced breath. “ _ Fuck _ .” He shakes out his hands, then starts to curl and uncurl his fingers.

Immediately, Harry knows what he’s doing. Without thinking, he envelopes Niall’s hands in his and squeezes. Niall freezes, locking eyes with Harry and blinking away the tears brimming his eyes. 

“I thought my worst fear was you not wanting to talk to me anymore, but this would have been so much worse…you not being here- I can’t even- I don’t even wanna think about it.” 

Harry stops squeezing, feeling a chill run through his veins. The pain he feels in his chest must be written all over his face- his lip trembles and his eyes well up with tears. Niall crumbles and a broken sob escapes him, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. He collapses onto Harry's chest and instinctively, Harry holds him. For a few minutes, the both cry, shaking in each other’s arms.

“There’s something wrong with me. I’m just- lost,” Harry says, into the shell of Niall’s ear. “...I don’t know how to be happy. I feel like I can’t do this anymore, just being here for the sake of being here. I try, but I feel like nothing is worth the effort.” 

Niall’s voice is calm in his ear. “You're worth the effort. Your life is worth it.” 

Harry feels tears in his eyes again, coming hard and fast. “You don't know what it's like to want everything and nothing at the same time.” 

“You don't know what I've felt,” Niall replies. He climbs off of Harry and drops himself down next to him, tugging his hand through his hair. “Listen. I can’t fix whatever you think is wrong with you, okay. As much as I want to. I can’t make you stop drinking either and I can't force you to be happy. But I can try stopping you from making stupid decisions. I can be there for you when you need it. Call it a flaw, but I just care about people-… and I know that you care too… I don’t know how to tell you that when I'm with you I don't feel so awful and scared and overwhelmed. I feel so comfortable around you, Harry, and I know I can be that for you too. I can't fault you for being so goddamned closed off and resistant. For being depressed and wanting to...leave. But, I want you around. I want you to want the same thing.” He stops and looks at Harry, waiting for a response even though he probably knows better by now.

After a minute, he continues, wiping his tears. “I don't know if it matters right now, but I like you so fucking much, Harry. And you can sit here and say that you don’t give a shit about me, because you wanna push me away like you’re doing me a favor- but you’d be lying. You feel the same about me, and I know it.”  

Harry’s mouth is so unbelievably dry when he opens it to speak. “Am I that transparent?” 

Niall clears his throat, sniffling. He drops his eyes to the dirt, unable to look Harry in the eyes. “You opened up to me… and maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe I’m just being stupid and selfish right now. Maybe it doesn’t mean shit that you’ve talked to me and no one else. Maybe I’m wrong about the way I catch you looking at me.” 

“You’re not,” Harry cuts in. He might as well admit it- he has nothing else to lose. “You’re right. Everything you’re saying is true.”

Niall looks up, looking at lost for words for a long moment. “Well, ... good.”

Harry sits up, moving to sit closer to Niall “I gotta say, you look fucking ugly when you cry.” 

Niall laughs, wetly. “You do too, asshole.” 

“I didn’t think it was possible for you to look ugly,” Harry says, only half joking. 

Niall rolls his eyes, smacking Harry weakly on the arm. “Shut up.”

Harry finds Nialls gaze and doesn't look away. “I never want to make you cry again.” He wants the opposite. He wants to make him happy all the time, every second of the day. If Niall would even let him, that is.

“Then don't,” Niall replies. 

Harry nods, then says, “I don't want you to stick around just because you pity me.” 

Without a beat, Niall says, “I never said a word about pitying you.” 

“That's what this is though.” 

Niall scoffs. “You've got to be a fucking idiot if you think this is pity.” He takes a deep breath and lies down on his back, letting out another big sigh. Harry takes a second, then lies down next to him. Their hands find each other’s like they were never apart, and they look up at the stars. Everything is quiet, except this time it’s the kind of quiet right before the dawn of something new. 

Harry lets his eyes close, for what feels like a second. 

“Wake up.”

Harry opens his eyes. “I’m awake.”

“You weren’t a second ago.” Niall sits up and gets to his feet, holding out his hand for Harry to grab. It’s the second time, Harry notes, that Niall has helped his drunk ass off the ground. 

Once he’s up, Niall steps closer and sticks his hand into Harry’s front pocket. “I’m taking your keys.”

Harry nods, allowing Niall to dig around in his pockets. It’s definitely not the right time to think about Niall’s hands being so close to his thighs, but it does cross his mind. The moment is shattered when Niall pulls out Harry’s pocket knife. 

“This is mine now too,” he says. He puts it in his own pocket, along with Harry’s keys. Then, he takes Harry’s hand and leads him to his car. 

“Where are we going?” Harry asks, sliding into the passenger’s seat. 

“I’m taking you home,” Niall says, starting up the car. He looks over at Harry, “Unless you don’t want to go home.”

Harry shakes his head. “Not yet.” Not alone, he adds to himself. 

As they’re driving down the darkened road, Harry lets his eyes flutter closed again. They only open when he feels Niall shaking his arm. 

“You’re literally crashing,” he says, unlatching Harry’s seatbelt. 

“A downward spiral will do that to you,” Harry jokes. 

“Very funny,” Niall deadpans. He steps out of the car, and walks around to help Harry out too. It could be romantic, under different circumstances.

Inside Niall's apartment, Harry stands dumbly in the living room. “I never told you how nice your apartment is,” he says, to fill the silence. There's a headache starting to pound at the back of his head, the dehydration and lack of food finally catching up to him. 

“Thanks,” Niall says, kicking off his shoes. “The best part is my bed, probably. It was ridiculously expensive and is deceptively comfortable.” 

Harry turns to face him, swaying on his feet a bit. “...Are you inviting me to test out your bed?” 

Niall holds out his hand and Harry takes it, following him into the hall. “You don’t have to,” he finds himself saying, stopping at the bedroom door. 

“I’m not doing it because I feel like I have to,” Niall says, opening the door. “I want to.”

The room is clean, as expected. The aforementioned bed is pushed against the far corner, made up with crisp white sheets and big, navy blue comforter. “I’m literally not worthy to be in your bed,” Harry says, out loud. 

Niall chuckles, and says, almost flippantly. “I wish you would shut up and take off your shoes.” 

Harry does as he’s told, because its been proven again and again that he can’t say no to Niall. 

Niall gives Harry a bottle of water from his nightstand, which Harry accepts without question. He finishes it, and hands it back, only feeling minimally better.

“Go ahead,” Niall says, motioning to the bed. 

For a second, Harry thinks about fighting it. There’s still a sinking feeling that this won’t end well. Here he is, in Niall’s bedroom- and in all his greatest fantasies, he imagined he would be here. But, not like this. Not when he’s shitfaced drunk, suicidal, and smelling like sweat and alcohol. He doesn’t even want to  _ think _ about what he must look like now. 

“Okay,” he relents. He crawls onto the bed and lies down on his back, on top of the comforter. Right away, Niall crawls in next to him. Side by side, Harry can hear Niall’s breathing. If he focuses hard enough, he might be able to hear his heartbeat over his own racing pulse. This isn’t what he wrote about, nor what he imagined, when he pictured lying in bed next to him. Yet, he’s still in awe. Through his own stench, he can pick up Niall’s strong chamomile scent from the pillows. Yes, he’s drunk, and slowly stepping off the ledge he put himself on, but he’s here. Niall is here. 

Niall clears his throat. “So?”

“ _ So? _ ” 

“What do you think of the bed?” 

Harry can’t think too much about the actual feel of the bed. They could be lying on a fucking cardboard box and Harry would be fine, as long as Niall was by his side. “I never want to leave it.” The truth slips out easily, spurred on by exhausted and inebriation. 

Harry feels Niall shifting on the mattress, moving to turn on his side. Harry follows suit, turning to face him. He looks Niall up and down, from his tousled brown hair, wrinkled shirt, and bare feet. Niall yawns, rubbing a hand over his bloodshot eyes. He tries to give Harry a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” Harry asks. 

“Ask again and I’m kicking you out,” Niall threatens, though his voice is weak and tired.

“Well,” Harry says, “I’m sorry.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “I said it’s fine.”

“It’s not though,” Harry responds. 

“Okay, it’s not ideal... But I’m not arguing with you about it,” Niall yawns again. “Go to sleep.”

“You go to sleep.”

Grinning wryly, Niall says, “I probably won't sleep much at all tonight, to be honest.”

It makes Harry’s heart drop, weighing heavy in his stomach. This is what he was avoiding- hurting someone who deserves it the least. “I’m sorry for being mean. I’m a dumbass.” 

Niall gives Harry a look he can’t decipher, somewhere between concern and fascination. He pushes Harry’s hair off his forehead and tells him, “You need to sleep.”

“So do you,” Harry counters.

“You first,” Niall cracks a smile.

“You don’t look ugly when you cry,” Harry tells him, feeling his eyelids get heavier by the second. “I was joking.”

“Okay, okay.” Niall shushes him, putting a finger over Harry’s lips. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re gorgeous. Nothing about you is ugly,” Harry says, against Niall’s finger.

Niall chuckles, and shushes him again. “Shhh. Close your eyes.”

“Fine,” Harry says, doing as he’s told, “but only because you told me to.”

Soon after, Harry feels Niall interlock their fingers. Within seconds, he’s drifting into sleep. 

-

Harry wakes up groggy, heavy-headed and confused. Blinking his eyes open, he remembers where he is. The bed is empty next to him, but there’s faint music coming seeping through the closed door. 

He climbs out of bed, his muscles stiff and head pounding. Once he's completely upright, a wave of nausea hits him. He leaves the room and treks down the hall and makes it to the restroom in time to throw up. Leaning over the toilet, another tidal wave hits him. This time, it's shame, and embarrassment. The memories come flooding back as quickly as they left, leaving him overwhelmed with conflicting emotions.

Tears start to well up in his eyes as he flushes the toilet and gets to his feet. He turns on the faucet and rinses his mouth the best he can. The second he takes a look at his reflection, at his red eyes, puffy face, and the dried blood on his hands, he can't hold it in anymore. His knees go weak and the sobs rip through his chest. The realization hits him that if things had gone differently, he wouldn't have woken up this morning. It’s surreal, that he's here. That he’s alive. A wave of relief and regret sweeps him at the same time, choking him up even more. “ _ Shit _ .” 

Niall appears in the open doorway. “What happened?” He steps in, placing a hand on Harry's back.

Harry shakes his head, shuddering under Niall’s touch. “Nothing. I just- last night...I- I just realized...I was almost- I was going to-,” It's hard to even get the words out. Last night, he was going to kill himself. How did he get here? How did he let this happen?

Niall wraps his arms around Harry's waist, resting his head against his back. It's a comfortable and welcome weight. “But, you didn't.”

Harry takes in a shaky breath, bringing his hands up to rest on top of Niall's. “I didn't.” 

Finally, he looks up at his reflection again. It's less alarming with Niall holding on to him, as if he'd float away without the extra weight. 

“Okay,” he mutters, sniffling. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Niall steps to the side to look at Harry’s face. “Okay what?”

“Think I'm done crying now,” Harry says, trying to laugh. It comes out wet, betraying his words.

Niall squeezes him tighter, both hands pressed into his side. “It's okay if you still have to.”

Harry turns in the embrace to face him fully, letting Niall hold him against the sink. There’s a nice flush to Niall’s cheeks, matching the color of his lips. “I think I'm all cried out.”

“Good,” Niall says, then right after, “You should shower.”

“Are you saying I stink?”

“Well,” he uses his thumb to wipe a tear away from Harry’s cheek. “You don’t smell  _ great _ ,” he says, with a smile. His eyes look brighter this morning, but he still looks exhausted. 

“Did you sleep?” Harry asks.

Niall shrugs, stepping back. “Sort of.” He points a thumb into the hallway. “I'll go get you some clothes.”

Harry nods, watching him go. Niall is back seconds later, with perfectly folded clothes and a bottle of water. Setting the clothes on the counter, he says, “There’s tylenol in the medicine cabinet,” and shuts the door on his way out. 

The water washes away all the sweat, dirt, tears, and blood from the night before. If he could wash away the memories too, he’d do that in a heartbeat. 

As he gets dressed in the borrowed clothes- the shorts too short and the t-shirt too tight,- nervousness starts to set in. It was easy to talk last night, when he was so far at the end of his rope that nothing else mattered. But, now that he’s here and he’s sober, he’s a different mess entirely. There are difficult conversations ahead of him, both with Niall and himself. 

Reluctantly, Harry steps out of the restroom and into the living room. Niall is in the kitchen, his head deep in the refrigerator. There’s music playing from a speaker on the counter, something soft and instrumental. Harry clears his throat, walking into the kitchen to join him. “How are you up so early?”

Niall speaks from inside the fridge, his voice muffled. “Making a grocery list.”

“Is making a grocery list before 8 AM part of your normal routine?“

Niall pokes his head out now, squinting. “Are you judging me?”

“A little.”

“Well, for your information, I was actually going to make you breakfast,” he says, shutting the fridge. “But since I'm out of nearly everything, and I'm actually exhausted, how about we just go somewhere? There's a little place a few blocks away. My treat?”

It's a nice gesture, but the thought of food makes his stomach turn. “Not really hungry.”

“I'll buy you coffee,” Niall offers. He’s already holding out his hand for Harry’s to grasp.

A smile makes it way onto Harry’s face, unsurprisingly. “You’re not gonna let me leave are you?”

“Do  _ you  _ want to leave?” Niall asks, his arm still extended.

To answer, Harry takes his hand. Niall beams at him, and grabs his keys and phone off the counter. 

It’s a short drive to the diner, but they hold hands the whole way there. Inside, they find a booth in the back and the host comes around to take their drink order. Harry orders coffee, taking Niall up on his offer, and Niall orders a decaffeinated tea that he swears is the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

Niall yawns, leaning back against the vinyl seat. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

“You didn’t give me a choice,” Harry replies, as the host comes back with their drinks. 

“Don’t give me that,” Niall says, sliding his drink across the table. “Taste this.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Harry mumbles, lifting the drink to his lips. It tastes the same as it smells, like strong cinnamon and vanilla. “I can’t believe you like this. Gross.” Harry takes a drink of his coffee, to wash the taste of cinnamon out of his mouth. 

“You drink your coffee black, so you really can’t judge me,” Niall states. “Also, who drinks black coffee? What are they really trying to prove?”

Harry smirks, but before he can respond to the smartass remark, their server comes up to the table to take their order. It’s a younger guy, probably around nineteen, who takes one look at Niall and turns beet red. His jaw literally drops and he blinks a few times, in disbelief. 

“Oh my god,” he says, “People said you liked to come here and I didn’t believe it. I am such a huge fan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Niall glances at the kid’s name tag. “Brandon.”

Brandon asks Niall to take a selfie with him, and Harry sits idly by, trying to to let on how uncomfortable the situation is. Then, Brandon congratulates Niall on his featherweight title and takes his food order. The silence that follows feels long and drawn out. There’s something buzzing around in Harry’s head, relentlessly now. After a few more silent minutes, Harry clears his throat and spits it out. “Can we talk about how jealous I am of you?” 

Niall raises a brow. “Jealous?” 

The flutter of nervousness reappears in Harry’s gut suddenly. To quell it, he tries to tell a joke. “First of all, you can grow a beard and I can’t.” 

“Oh, shut up.” 

“You're everything I could have been if I wasn't- like this.” Harry shrugs, as if it isn’t one of the truest things he’s ever said. 

Niall pauses, obviously noticing the shift in mood. “If you weren’t...like what?” 

“That is such a loaded question,” Harry sighs. “Where would I even start? Early childhood? The past few years? Or should I just talk about last night?”

“You brought it up,” Niall reminds him, calmly. 

“I’m kinda fucked up,” Harry says.

Not wasting a second, Niall replies, “No, you’re not.”

Harry rolls his eyes, his stomach churning. This is his least favorite thing to talk about. But, to make sense of why he’s been more of a mess than usual, he has to bring it up. “Well, I fucked up my career at least… Did you ever hear in detail about what I did? The reason why I was suspended for a year and I had to come down to Mojave?” 

Niall takes a sip of his drink, his gaze falling to the table. “...I've heard the summary of it.” 

“And did you hear he'll never fight again? That he had his jaw wired shut for months? Nearly blinded in one eye?” Harry tries to swallow the dryness in his mouth, to no avail. Niall looks up at him now, his expression unreadable. Harry goes on, his heart racing. “Did you know that my entire team basically turned on me? The few people I had just fucking dropped me like I meant nothing to them. So, instead of starting over there I just ran off and started over somewhere else… Even before everything happened, people didn’t understand me. I was weird and quiet, and really trying my fucking best to work on my anger issues. I was usually so depressed that it came off like I was mean, or like I didn’t give a fuck about the people around me. But, then I did what I did and overnight I became this reckless, confrontational, awful person. No one ever looked at me the same after what I did. And, I understand that. I accept that.” 

Harry stops, abruptly. Somehow, it simultaneously feels like a weight off his chest and someone punching him in the throat.

Niall looks at him for a minute, his mouth opening a few times before he actually speaks. “I get that. I really do. But, I won’t judge you for that like other people do. I don’t think it’s fair.”

“I disagree,” Harry challenges. He won’t let Niall put him on a pedestal. “I think it’s more than fair to judge me for what I did. It was really shitty and it’s something I don’t go a day without thinking of. I haven’t- I won’t forgive myself for it. I don’t think anyone else should either.” 

“Obviously, it was wrong and I don't agree with handling things like that. But-,” Niall sighs and puts his mug down. “It’s- that's not  _ you _ . That one shitty thing doesn’t define you. It's- complicated, and context means everything. The fact that I know you either makes me better informed or biased. Either way, what good does it do to hold that against you? You feel guilt about it. Which means you're not a bad person. So, no, I don't judge you for that.”

Harry starts to protest, but Niall cuts him off. “You won’t change my mind.”

“Fine,” Harry relents. He holds up both hands in defeat. “I won’t argue.”

Niall smiles at him, kicking him gently under the table. “Good, because you won’t win.”

“I just-,” Harry groans and fixes his eyes on his coffee.

“You just…?” Niall prompts. “You just what?”

“I just keep reliving it,” Harry continues, realizing he still has some of his soul left to bare. “It keeps following me everywhere I go. When it comes to being a fighter, having a real job doing this, I’ll never be able to forget it. It’s just this huge scar on what could have been a legacy. What’s the most annoying about it is that it wasn't even about me hating him. It was my stupid fucking low self esteem. I was jealous of him and he knew it. Being depressed and insecure doesn't count as a defense in court though.”

Niall’s smile has faded, but he keeps his eyes locked with Harry’s as Harry speaks. 

“I had to come up with 10 thousand dollars for bail, plus pay the guy’s hospital bills. Then, I was on probation for 18 months and had to do the most mind-numbing anger management classes and community service. It wouldn’t have been so unbearable if I was allowed to fight, or even train somewhere. But, I couldn’t so I was just forced to deal with the emotional aftermath head on.” Harry grits his teeth, cringing just thinking about how bad he got. “God, I drank so much. I get secondhand embarrassment thinking about how drunk I was on a daily basis. The guilt ate me up inside... but what was almost as bad was how worthless I felt without fighting.” 

“Harry,” Niall reaches across the table and puts his hand on top of Harry’s. “I want you to know two things.” 

Harry flips his palm, clasping their hands. “Okay.” 

“The first thing is, you’re not worthless,” Niall says, pressing his thumb into the racing pulse on Harry’s wrist. He speaks softly, that unwavering earnest look never leaving his face. “The second thing is that you’re way more than just a fighter. You’re so many other things. Selfishly, I wanna talk about how you mean something to  _ me _ . But, generally you’re not just some brute who can’t do anything but fight. You have a place in this world as much as the rest of us do, even when you’re not winning fights. Even when you're not getting sponsorships and traveling the state for press events.” 

Harry’s head is spinning. It’s that floaty feeling Niall gives him, as if he’s anchoring him to the earth. His breath catches in his throat, and if he wasn’t actively fighting against it, he’d be crying again. He manages to stutter out a “thank you,” and takes a drink of coffee to occupy himself. 

“My pleasure,” Niall says easily, as the server comes back with his food.

“You know,” Harry says, definitely noticing that Niall hasn’t let go of his hand. “it makes sense that I'm drawn to someone like you-,” 

“Someone like me?” Niall asks, picking up his fork with his right hand. He’s left handed, but is too busy tracing the lines on Harry’s palm to switch.

Harry blushes. “Don't make me explain it.” 

Niall flicks his gaze up to Harry, catching him smile. “I won't  _ force _ you.” 

“I mean, like, bright.” Harry shrugs a shoulder, as if he hasn’t written a fucking poems about how Niall makes him feel. “I think that makes sense. Because I'm-” 

“You’re what? Dark?” Niall finishes, taking a bite of hashbrowns.

“Not the word I would have chosen, but fair enough, I guess.”

“Then how would you explain it?” Niall asks. He waves his fork between them. “Go on. I promise I won’t interrupt.”

“It makes sense that you make me feel-  _ something _ ,” Harry continues, studying the light blue in Niall’s eyes and tilt of his lips. “But, for the life of me I can't figure out why you want to stick around. After I’ve made an ass of myself, and even after knowing my past and that I have baggage the size of Texas...you, for some fucking reason, wanna be around me.” 

Niall pulls a face. “Oh don’t do that whole ‘I’m not good enough for you’ thing. It’s really unattractive, if I’m being honest.” 

“When aren’t you being honest?” Harry quips, to which Niall responds with a laugh. “Seriously though, what’s in this for you?” 

“What’s in this for me?” Niall repeats. “I get to be around you.” 

“Which brings me back to my initial question. Why the hell would you want  _ that _ ?” 

Niall puts his fork down, leaning his elbow against the table. “You really want me to sit here and explain why or  _ how _ I could like you as a person?” 

Harry blinks at him. “Well… it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Okay.” Niall pushes his plate aside, extends his arm across the table and takes Harry’s other hand. “Can I be completely and totally honest?”

“I was hoping you would be,” Harry responds, his heart stuttering in his chest. 

Niall bites back his smile, and his face flushes five different shades of pink. “I knew who you were before we met, sort of. And not like, in a creepy stalker way. But in a ‘hey that Harry Styles is a great fighter and I admire that.’ You probably gathered this a while ago, but I was a fan of you. You were always so, like, _intense_ and _driven._.. I heard a little of your story and your struggle was different than mine, but I still related to it. And I knew people started to view you one way, and judge you, but I’d hear you talk in interviews and press conferences and I just thought you were sort of... charming.”

“Charming?” Harry repeats, his face burning. “Absolutely nothing about me is charming.”

“You were never cocky or disrespectful like everyone made you out to be,” Niall goes on, tactfully ignoring Harry’s comment. “You were never even  _ rude _ unless someone was intentionally trying to get a rise out of you. You always stood up for yourself and other people when someone was out of line. And I- I don't know, I liked that, I guess? Does this even make any sense?” 

“No,” Harry deadpans.

“God, shut up, just let me finish. There’s something about you-” 

“Something about me?” There are a lot of things about him. Most of them negative. But, the soft way Niall is looking at him, almost convinces him that he’s worth this attention. That he’s worth Niall’s time, effort, and affection. 

Niall lowers his voice, nearly to a whisper. “You had- and  _ have- _ a softness to you. Vulnerability. I saw that about you before we met. And, I wanted to know you.” 

“Oh,” Harry mutters, lacking anything better to say. It still doesn’t make any fucking sense but he’ll take anything he can get right now.

“I guess it also helped that I've always thought you were kinda cute.” 

“Just ‘kinda cute?” Harry wonders, with flowers blooming in his chest. “Wow.”

“You’re funny too,” Niall goes on, “That’s something I  _ didn’t _ know before we met.” 

“I’m loving the shower of compliments, keep them coming.” Harry can definitely get used to this, he decides.

“Another thing I didn’t know was that you could be such a stubborn, self sabotaging asshole when you wanted to be,” Niall tells him. “It’s truly a talent.”

Harry smirks. “ _ Ouch _ .” 

“Why’d you push me away like that?” Niall teases. “Scared you’d like me too much?” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry scoffs.

“I absolutely will not,” Niall answers, with finality. 

“Is that a promise or a threat?” Harry asks, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

Niall hums, finally letting Harry’s hands go to finish his food. “Depends on how you feel about it.”

After breakfast, Niall insists they walk three blocks to a public park. It’s early still, so the unforgiving August sun hasn’t started to beat down on them too much as they find a spot in the grass. Niall leans his back against a tree, patting the ground next to him. Harry moves in close, so their shoulders are pressed together. 

“So,” Niall starts, sticking his hand into his pocket. He takes out a card with a number and address printed on it. “I wanted to give you this. Hopefully it’s okay. Please tell me if it’s not.”

Harry takes the card, examining it. ‘Wellness Services,’ it reads. “What’s this?”

Niall brings his hand up to his mouth, starting to chew his nails. “Well, it’s where I go for therapy.”

When Harry doesn’t respond within .5 seconds, Niall starts apologizing. “I’m sorry. I was out of line. Just, like ignore it. Take your time. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Harry takes Niall’s fingers away from his mouth and squeezes them tight. “No, it’s fine. It’s just- … it’s been a long fucking time.”

“I want you to get better,” Niall rushes out. “But, you have to want it too.” 

“Of course I want that for myself.” Harry slides the card into his front pocket, which is actually Niall’s front pocket. He swallows the lump in his throat and shakes his head. “Apathy fucks you up though, and you trick yourself into thinking nothing matters.” 

“You matter,” Niall says easily. 

Harry blinks, and as much as he fights it, tears start to fall. “Oh god, I must have been backed up. Now I can’t stop.” Harry laughs through the tears, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “You must be sick of me already.” 

“No way,” Niall says, pulling Harry into an embrace. He snakes both arms around Harry’s neck and pulls him close, pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead. “I could never.” 

And Harry thinks, as Niall holds him together,  _ what in the world did I do to deserve this? _


	5. Round Five

When you’re coming out of a nearly month-long depression, you start to realize how much you let everything else fall to the wayside. Harry spends the better part of two days cleaning his apartment- doing laundry, tackling the pile of dirty dishes, and clearing out empty bottles. Throwing out the rest of his alcohol is bittersweet. It takes courage and will power to be able to pour it all down the drain, but knowing he’ll be without his crutch makes him uneasy. It has to happen this way, even though quitting cold turkey is like jumping head first into freezing cold water. He knows from experience that taking ‘baby steps’ doesn’t work- he needs to feel that biting cold, that deep uncomfortable feeling that will eventually fade away. It’s been too easy for him to fall back into his self-destructive routines before, when he was trying to ‘go easy’ on himself. Maybe he needs the tough love, maybe he needs to hold his head under water for a little while until he learns to breath on his own again.

After coming home a few days ago, and arguing with himself for a little while, he called the number on the card Niall gave him. Writing down the date of his first appointment gave him a sense of pride he that he didn’t know he was missing.

He called his mom back, feeling especially guilty for leaving her out of the loop. They ended up talking for hours, and Harry only cried a little. This time, when she asked him to come visit her, Harry didn’t hesitate to make actual plans. So, in a week, he’ll be making the five hour drive up to see her. In the back of his mind, he pictures Niall in the passenger’s seat. Before he lets himself get too caught up in the fantasy of Niall meeting his family, he reminds himself that nothing is official between them yet.

Another chunk of Harry’s time is spent in bed, alternating between sleeping and talking on the phone with Niall. His body is still drained, trying to come back from being trashed and downright neglected for six weeks straight. Despite this, he makes time to lie awake and talk to Niall.

It’s purposefully lighthearted conversation, Harry notices. He plays along, letting Niall ramble about the docuseries he’s watching and his opinion on tuna melts. They don’t talk about their budding relationship, and they definitely don’t talk about Harry’s suicide attempt. It’s sleepy, delirious, and innocuous late night conversation and Harry is grateful for it.

“So,” Niall sighs. “Are you coming back to the gym, or…?”

Harry hasn’t thought about it much yet. He hasn’t been in contact with Craig or Kevin, but he figures they’re giving him space on purpose. Eventually, he’ll have to talk to them about what’s next. Sure, he can push himself to train harder, be stronger, faster, and better. But, if he’s not mentally strong enough, then none of that matters.

“To see you,” Harry replies.

Niall chuckles. “Or… you can just come to my apartment?”

Harry turns over onto his back, closing his eyes. He pictures himself in Niall’s bed again, only this time he’s not shitfaced drunk and crawling out from a downward spiral. “I could.”

“Well,” Niall says, “just let me know when. No pressure.”

“Saying ‘no pressure’ is literally the worst thing you could have said just now,” Harry says, through laughter. “Also, why do I have to decide when to come over? Why don’t you just invite me?”

Niall laughs too, “Why are you making this complicated?”

“When have we ever been simple?” Harry asks.

“You are so right,” Niall says, and then adds, “Come over right now.”

Harry pulls the phone away from his face to look at the time. “Niall, it’s 3 AM.”

“So?”

“These are booty call hours,” Harry tells him, and Niall laughs so loud that Harry has to pull the phone away from his ear again.

“Fine, fine,” Niall says, laughter still in his voice. “I’ll just see you when I see you. No pressure.”

Harry’s face is actually aching. Smiling for an hour straight will do that to you. “You gotta stop saying that.”

“Or what?”

“I’ll hang up on you,” Harry threatens, clutching the phone tighter. He would never, and Niall most definitely knows that.

“You would never,” Niall scoffs. “Come over. No pressure.”

For a minute, Harry just bites his lip to keep from laughing.

Niall hums. “Is that your breathing I hear? Oh, so you didn’t actually hang up on me? I knew you wouldn’t.”

“You need to sleep,” Harry tells him, with butterflies in his stomach.

“Make me,” Niall says.

“Goodnight,” Harry says, with a grin. “I’m hanging up now.”

“No, you’re not.”

And, he’s right, of course. “Seriously though, we’ve been talking in circles for an hour. I’m exhausted so I know you are too.”

“So? I like talking in circles with you.”

To that, Harry has no valid argument. He closes his eyes, going back to that image of them lying in bed together. He falls asleep with his phone still clutched in his hand.

-

One thing Harry has learned over the years is that unless he has a serious injury, training doesn't stop. Suicidal ideations and slight mental breakdown aside, he thinks he's okay. Talking to Niall has definitely helped, but sitting around in his apartment alone for any longer isn’t going to do him any good. So, he packs up his bag and heads to the gym.

The thing is, Harry still kind of wants to kill himself. He isn’t sure if the underlying desire will ever go away. Harry isn't new to this- trying to “get better” and “recover,” as if it's a linear thing with a definitive peak or end. It's not easy, trying to get better when you can only change so much. The way he is, the way he feels so fucking low and empty every time something triggers him, may not ever change. Even if he could change his mindset, the outside world doesn't change, triggers don't change, and other people don't change just because you want them to.

And the complete truth is, he doesn’t know if things are going to get better. He put his former friends and his family through shit time and time again, trying and failing to make better choices and put his mental health first. He's lashed out, hurt feelings, and pushed away the very people he depended on to help him. The idea that he might put that burden on someone else, someone so beautiful and kind like Niall, doesn't sit well with him. It seems easier to say fuck it and give up.

The idea that he can be so happy and hopeful in this moment, yet still have the thought in the back of his mind that it’d be easier if he wasn’t around is driving him up the wall. The thought is not as terrifying as it is unnerving. Like, a phantom itch that will never be scratched.

But, he can't give up. As awful as it feels to live and struggle, it feels worse when he's indifferent and empty. He knows he's going to fall on his face more than once and he knows he’ll want to stop trying, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel, however dim.

Niall is at the gym when Harry gets there, hitting pads with Louis and Liam. He sees Harry walk in and gives him a big smile, but doesn’t come over to talk. It looks as though the ball is truly in Harry’s court now.

What Niall might not know is that if he waits for Harry to make the first move, they might be waiting forever. Throughout his whole cardio circuit, he keeps his eyes on Niall, hoping that Niall can feel the stares and take a hint. The hint being that Harry has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.

Niall ends up retreating to the locker room, not even sending a glance in Harry’s direction. If it’s a game he’s playing, it’s working. After a few minutes, Harry groans to himself and stops his treadmill.

Louis stops Harry on the way to the locker room. “Hey,” he says. Noticing the wary look on Harry’s face, he holds up a hand. “No threats this time, I promise.”

“Okay,” Harry says.

“Just wanted to tell you that I give you my blessing to date my best friend.”

Harry bursts into laughter and Liam comes over to see what all the fuss is about.

“It’s not funny,” Louis says, his tone serious. “Liam, tell him I’m not joking.”

“He isn’t, unfortunately,” Liam says, shaking his head.  “All I have to say is that if you two are gonna have sex in the locker room, make sure you warn us first. We’ll give you space.”

“Jesus christ, I can’t believe Niall puts up with you two,” Harry mutters, as he walks away.

He enters the locker room, narrowly avoiding the awkward possibility of he and Niall getting undressed near each other. He never gave it a second thought before, since almost everyone in the gym has seen each other’s ass at least once. But, now that there’s _something_ between them, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

Luckily, Niall is in the shower already and Harry can strip without worrying about if Niall thinks he has a nice ass. He steps into a stall at the end, and tries to prolong his shower so he doesn’t have to go out and talk. It’s a little pathetic, he knows, but he never said he was good at any of this shit.

When Harry comes out of the shower, in just his towel, Niall is still there. Harry curses himself, silently, and gives a quiet greeting. Niall just grins at him in response. He’s shirtless and wearing a pair of jeans that are still unbuttoned. It’s a sight for sore eyes, for sure. Harry allows himself an extra second to look, without shame, dragging his gaze over Niall’s wet hair, pink cheeks, and bare chest.

“Hi,” Niall says, his eyes absolutely fucking shining. “Are you okay? Like- with everything?”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says, going back to his default response. It’s easy when he’s drunk. It’s easy over the phone. It’s different, in person, when Niall is giving him that _look_.

“Then why don’t you look fine?” Niall asks.

“I feel like I have to say sorry again-,”

Niall cuts him off, shaking his head. “You don’t need to keep apologizing to me.”

“No, I do,” Harry insists. He’ll be apologizing forever about this, he thinks. “Because I was an asshole, and I was stupid and impulsive and even after that you went out of your way to help me. So, I’m sorry.”

“I’d do it again,” Niall says easily, his eyes not leaving Harry’s face. “I mean, I hope things never get that bad again but if they do, I’m here.”  

“I- well, thank you. For everything.” It makes Harry’s chest get all tight, and he thinks: _‘I swear to god, if I cry again I’m fucking leaving.’_

Niall gives him a winning smile. “Of course, it's no problem.”

“I’m gonna-,” Harry points a thumb to his locker, remembering he’s still practically naked.

Niall’s grin widens. “Don’t mind me.”

Harry goes to his locker, (which is behind Niall thank god) and throws on a t-shirt and jeans, contemplating his next move. Things feel different, and somehow the same. Niall has seen the worst of Harry, and he hasn’t run. Niall claims to _like_ Harry. The idea still makes Harry’s head spin, but he’ll take it. It’s terrifying and exciting, and he feels like he’s going to explode with adoration every single second they’re near each other, but he loves every second of it. They _like_ each other, and have finally gotten past all of the roadblocks and bad timing. There’s nothing in their way. Now comes the most important question. What now?

Harry packs up his stuff and shoulders his bag. He turns and looks at the back of Niall’s head for a minute, before taking a deep breath and walking around to the other side.

Niall looks up at him, his brows raised expectantly.

“I- see you tomorrow?” Harry settles on, and immediately kicks himself for it. ‘ _Real charming, Harry.’_

“I hope so,” Niall answers, smoothly.

Harry all but runs out of the room, but only gets as far as the hallway before he’s circling back.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he drops his bag and sits down next to Niall, who doesn’t look the least bit surprised.

“Hello again.”

“Hi,” Harry mutters, his heart thumping wild in his chest.

“Hi,” Niall repeats, with the tiniest smirk on his lips.

Harry just looks at him, and Niall gazes back.

It takes a second, but Harry reaches out and cups Niall's face, brushing a thumb over his cheek. Niall leans into it, and Harry takes note of the sigh that leaves his lips.

“How's your nose?” Harry asks, feeling Niall’s smooth skin under his thumb.

“It's good,” Niall answers. “More crooked than before, but fine.”

Harry swallows the dryness in his throat and licks his lips. “You're not perfect.”

Niall smiles into Harry's hand and shakes his head. “I’m not perfect.”

“And I'm not either,” Harry adds.

“You're not,” Niall agrees.

Harry nods, taking a deep breath. “But I think...we could be, together.”

Niall takes Harry’s other hand, gripping it tight. His pulse beats rapidly in Harry’s palm. “You think so?”

“I think so.”

“So?” Niall asks, literally batting his eyelashes.

Harry pauses. “So, what?”

“Anything else you wanted to say...or do?” Niall turns his head, just slightly enough that Harry’s thumb brushes his lips.

“I wanted to- um-,” Harry tilts Niall’s chin up and leans in, pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s chaste, but it sets Harry’s face on fire. After a moment, when he’s sure Niall isn’t going to pull away, Harry deepens the kiss, slipping his hand along Niall’s jaw to cradle the back of his head.

It’s like fireworks, as cliche as it sounds. Like a spark of electricity that stings and bites in the perfect way, giving him goosebumps and making every hair on his body stand on end. It’s amazing- better than anything he has ever imagined because it’s real. The way Niall’s mouth moves against his is too good to be a dream. It’s enrapturing how Niall breathes into him, and Harry inhales him greedily, like he’ll never have the chance again.

Niall's eyes are still closed when Harry breaks the kiss. When he finally opens his eyes, his darkened pupils send a warm feeling through Harry’s veins. There’s a beat, then Niall is leaning in to kiss Harry again, running his fingers through Harry’s hair, and sliding the other hand around Harry’s waist to rest on his lower back. Harry drops his hands to Niall’s hips, reveling in Niall’s sweet taste. There’s voracity in Niall’s movements- the way he slides his tongue over Harry’s lower lip literally makes him tremble.

Then, Harry makes the mistake of letting a moan slip. They separate as quickly as they came together, Harry with an apology already on the tip of his tongue. His cheeks burn as he jumps to his feet, watching the goofy smile on Niall’s face and the redness spreading across his cheeks and neck.

With one hand over his mouth, Niall says, “That was nice.”

Harry drops his head in his hands to hide his face. “Oh boy.”

“‘Oh boy’ is the right sentiment, I think,” Niall agrees.

Harry peeks through his fingers and sees Niall gets to his feet. “Oh boy,” he says again, like he’s fucking short circuiting.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Niall grins and steps forward, placing a kiss on Harry’s cheek. “Call me tonight? No pressure.”

It takes Harry a full five minutes to calm himself down before he leaves the locker room. When he walks outside, still buzzing, he spots Niall pacing in the parking lot near his car. He perks up when Harry comes near. “I wasn’t actually really to say goodnight,” he admits.

“No?” Harry drops his bag and their hands find each other, like they usually do.

Niall shakes his head. “I was thinking… I still owe you dinner. Come to mine tomorrow tonight?”

Harry steps closer, letting Niall snake his arm around Harry's waist. “Like a date?”

Niall steps closer, walking Harry into the side of his car, not even hiding the fact that he’s staring at Harry’s lips. “Better late than never, right?”

They’re pressed close, chest to chest, when their lips meet again softly. Niall separates, speaking against Harry’s mouth. His voice is quiet, like he’s telling a secret. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the first time we were alone together. Standing outside of the bar, with you looking at me all starry-eyed.”

Harry remembers that night too well, remembers the very moment when he knew there was no turning back. “Why didn’t you just do it?” he asks, allowing his lips to brush against Niall’s as he talks.

Niall leans back, squinting. “Why didn't _you_?”

“Because I'm a wreck?” Harry answers, without thinking about it. Wincing, he wants to take it back.

Niall rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry says, wanting to pull him closer even though it’s not possible. “I promise I'll make it up to you.”

“How?” Niall squeezes Harry’s hips, making Harry jump. “It better be good.”

“One kiss,” Harry starts, swiping the hair away from Niall’s forehead, “for every time we should have kissed before.”

“I like that,” Niall decides. “I'll start.”

Niall gives Harry a peck on the lips and says, “That one is for when we first hung out, at the bar.”

Harry smiles and kisses him back. “For when you bought me breakfast before my fight and made me so happy, I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

Niall kisses Harry again, harder. “For when you told me you would always choose me,” then kisses him again, bringing his hands up to cradle Harry’s face. “And for when we sat on that bench, in Denver, and I gave you my book and you almost cried.”

Harry face grows hot as he gives Niall another kiss. “For when you carried my drunk ass to your apartment and never judged me for it.”

Niall stops, squeezing Harry’s face a little between his hands. “I didn't wanna kiss you while you were drunk.”

Harry shrugs. “You could have kissed me the morning after. I know I really wanted to.”

Niall smiles now, already leaning in. “I really wanted to and really should have.” He kisses Harry twice, in quick succession, leaving Harry chasing after his lips. “For holding me after my anxiety attack, and holding my hand on the plane to Vegas.”

Harry can feel his lips start to tingle, but he leans in again anyway, giving Niall another kiss. “For when you asked me to be in your corner for your fight.” And another one, “When you won and gave me a hug.” Harry kisses him hard, coming away breathless, “For when you came to my hotel room after your fight, and you told me you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Niall slides his hands up Harry’s back and kisses him with the same intensity, not even breaking the kiss completely to speak. “For the poem you wrote about me.”

Harry frowns, feigning confusion. “What poem? I don't recall writing a poem about you.”

Niall literally giggles. “Shut up. I could have cried,” he says, and gives Harry another kiss. “When you told me we would have found each other somehow, no matter what… did you mean that?”

“Of course.” Harry presses their lips together, breaking the kiss to whisper. “When you touched my scars.”  

For a moment, they stand there with their foreheads together, smiling like two idiots with nowhere to be. It's easy, being this close to him. Comfortable.

“Did we miss any?” Niall asks.

Harry gives him one more kiss, letting it land at the corner of his lips. “For saving my life.”

“I didn't-,” Niall protests.

“You did,” Harry insists, wrapping his arms around Niall’s waist. “I wouldn't be here right now, kissing you, if you weren't around to help me.”

Niall runs his hand through Harry’s hair and kisses him again, sweetly. “For all the ones we might have missed.”

A whistle cuts through the parking lot and they both turn to look, spotting Liam and Louis standing at the gym entrance.

Liam cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “We just saw you two kiss like 30 fucking times!”

Next to him, Louis adds. “Disgusting!”

Niall flips them off, waving both his middle fingers in their direction. “Mind your business!”

“Get a room!” Louis responds.

“We plan on it!” Niall shouts back, laughter in his voice. “Fuck off!”

Just because he can, Harry snakes an arm around Niall’s waist and kisses him again, his lips against Niall's straight white teeth, feeling the vibrations of laughter on his lips. Harry laughs too, letting it tumble out freely, with the kind of recklessness he usually reserves for hostility and violence. The harder he laughs, the harder Niall kisses him. Their teeth clash together, his heart beats fast against Niall’s chest, and joy resonates through him.

For the first time in weeks, he starts to feel full again.

-

Harry is wearing the nicest shirt he owns and he’s still not convinced it looks good. It’s rare for Harry to even think about putting on a shirt with buttons, and on the drive to Niall’s apartment he starts to worry that he’s overdressed. The only thing he can do is hope that Niall likes the gaudy green polka dotted shirt. As he parks his car, he glances at his reflection in the rearview mirror and silently curses himself for not getting a haircut. He tried his best with styling it, and it’s obvious he has not clue what he’s doing.

Running his fingers through his hair to make it as elegantly disheveled as possible, he mutters to himself. “As good as it’s gonna get.”

The nerves don’t set in until he’s walking up the stairs. Should he have brought flowers? Maybe. Does Niall even like romantic shit like that? Probably not. Is Harry ready to draw out every shred of buried romance inside of him just to impress Niall? Absolutely.

Niall opens the door seconds after Harry knocks, like he was waiting just on the other side. He grins and pulls Harry into a hug. “Your hair looks good,” he says into Harry’s neck.

Harry blushes, and blurts out, “You smell nice.”

Niall puls back, taking Harry by the hand to lead him into the apartment. “So I’ve been told.”

“You already started cooking,” Harry notices, stepping into the kitchen. Niall stops him before he can take another step.

“Of course I did,” he says, his hand still on Harry’s chest. “What kind of host would I be if I made you sit around while I cooked?”

“You say that like it would be a bad thing,” Harry says, taking Niall’s hand in his. “I could have helped you.”

“I don’t know how to explain this,” Niall says, bringing Harry’s hand to his lips. “But, I kind of have a _thing_ about my kitchen. It might take awhile before I let you do anything in here.”

Mesmerized by the way Niall’s lips feel on his hand, it takes him a second to find words. “We’ll work up to it.”

Niall smiles against Harry’s hand, his stare unwavering. “Would love to stand here all night and stare at you, but I should probably finish cooking.”

“I’ll leave you to it.” Harry lingers for a second, not wanting to be away from him for even a second, then takes a seat at the bar. Tapping his fingers on the granite, he watches as Niall meticulously adds spices to a saucepan on the stove, stirring and tasting every time he adds something new.

“Looks like a lot of work,” Harry points out, as Niall opens the oven. “You could at least let me help you finish it.”

“Or, I could let you sit there and look pretty.” Niall starts frantically stirring something on the stove, his back turned to Harry. “It's almost done.”

Harry leans against the counter, staring at the back of Niall's head. Thankfully, Niall can’t see the stupid, goofy smile on his face. “What exactly are you planning on feeding me?”

Niall puts a lid on the pan and opens the oven again. “Potatoes are done, chicken is done, veggies are done, but I’m still working on this dijon mustard sauce that I regret trying to make.” Then he lifts the lid again, tastes the sauce, puts the lid back and opens the oven yet again.

Harry smiles, fondness growing in his chest. “Do I have permission to enter the kitchen?”

Niall looks at Harry over his shoulder, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Don’t make it weird.”

Harry steps into the kitchen, swallowing his nervous energy. When he wraps his arms around Niall’s waist, Niall leans back into Harry’s chest. Harry could melt into the floor probably, and just live the rest of his life as a gross, gooey pile of emotions. “You could have ordered me pizza and I would have been just as happy.”

“Liar,” Niall mumbles, his head against Harry’s shoulder.

“Really,” Harry insists. “Who do you think I am?”

“Someone who wears fancy shirts to a casual date, apparently,” Niall teases, turning in Harry’s arms. He has a smirk on his lips that Harry really fucking wants to kiss. “I don’t know if pepperoni and pineapple pizza would go with it.”

“First of all,” Harry responds, “My mom got me this shirt, so you’re not allowed to make fun of it. Second, if you put pineapple on your pizza, I will leave and never talk to you again.”

“First of all,” Niall mocks, squeezing Harry’s hip. It makes Harry jump, and a devilish grin spreads across Niall’s face. “I _was_ going to shit on you for your taste in pizza, but… are you ticklish?”

Harry bites back his smile. “I’ll never tell.”

“I’ll find out eventually,” Niall says, and it sounds like a threat. “It’s only the first date. I have time.”

“So, _is_ this our first date?” Harry muses.

“If you want it to be… like, official, I mean.” Niall chews his lip. “We don’t have to label it but if you wanted to…”

“I figured our first date was you choking me out in the desert while I was drunk and in the midst of a depressive episode.” Sometimes Harry forgets that using self deprecating humor as a defense mechanism isn't always appropriate. But, by the time he remembers, he has already said something really fucking stupid.

“Ha ha,” Niall says, in a way that tells Harry that it wasn’t very funny at all.

“Sorry-,” Harry starts.

“It’s fine,” Niall says, smoothing his hands over Harry’s chest. “It just wasn't my proudest moment.”

Harry shrugs. “You did what you had to do. And it wasn’t so bad… I got a pretty good and idea of how hard you can choke, which is- useful information.” Just talking about it makes his skin hot. It's far too easy to imagine Niall's hand around his throat, his tongue sliding along the shell of Harry's ear-

Niall pauses, his brows raising. “...is it?”

“For fights, of course,” Harry adds, unable to train his expression into anything other than a smile.

“Right, right.” Niall nods, slowly. “ _Of course_.”

“Also,” Harry says, “you being there means I didn’t kill myself- which is also pretty sweet.”  

The smile on Niall's face falters for a fraction of a second, then he puts his hands on Harry's shoulders. “You know,” he says. “I don't think it's fair to yourself that you give me all the credit for that.”

Harry blinks, and feels the mood in the room shift and change into something heavier. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you could have just told me to fuck off again.” Niall moves his hands up, cradling the back of Harry’s head. “But, you didn't. _You_ made a choice, I didn't make it for you.”

Harry recalls that night. His chest burning, mouth dry as he looked up at Niall through tears. “You didn't let me get in my car. You literally held me down and forced me to realize I was being a fucking idiot. I think that deserves some credit.”

“Stop calling yourself that,” Niall says, and it’s absolutely an order. His expression is open and honest like the first time they spoke. “You may have done stupid things but you’re not stupid. You’re not an idiot. You’re clinically depressed... I didn’t save your life. I’m not some kind of divine being. I’m just someone who likes you a lot. And even if I did push you in the right direction, it was still your choice to stick around.”

Harry nods, his voice stuck somewhere in his throat. Tears prick at the back of his eyes and honestly, crying on their first date isn’t ideal but wouldn’t be the worst situation they’ve been in. On cue, the overly familiar voice in his head begins to remind him of all the shitty things he’s done. Normally, in this situation, he would run. He’d tell himself it’s better that way, and that he doesn’t deserve anyone being nice to him. Instead, he digs his heels in, grits his teeth, and reminds himself that getting better might be an uphill battle for a long time.

“Thank you,” he chokes out, then clears his throat to fight the tears. “For telling me shit I need to hear.”

“You’re welcome.” Niall kisses Harry's cheek, and slips out of his arms to tend to the stove. “And, for the record, I would say that our first date was when I came to your hotel room after my fight and you practically jumped out of bed to avoid kissing me.”

Harry doesn't even want to think about that, much less talk about it. “You're not gonna let me live that one down, are you?”

Niall shrugs and purses his lips, as if he's considering. “Probably not.” He turns off the stove and the oven, and reaches into the cupboards over Harry’s head. “Help me set the table?”

The smile returns to Harry’s face and he takes the plates out of Niall’s hands. “Letting me set the table so we don’t talk about me being an idiot? Clever.”

“If you keep calling yourself an idiot, I’ll never let you in my kitchen again,” Niall threatens, keeping his tone light as he steps into the dining area.

“Right,” Harry remembers, following behind Niall like the lovesick puppy he is. “You might have to keep reminding me. It’s a habit, unfortunately.”

“Well, old habits die hard,” Niall comments, placing his hand on the small of Harry’s back as he moves past. He goes back to the kitchen and transfers the food to serving dishes that are nicer than anything Harry has in his entire apartment.

Setting the table with Niall feels domestic in a way he thought he’d never have. In past relationships (and Harry uses the term ‘relationship’ loosely), the closest he got to romance was drinking beer and eating day old fries on his couch. Now, he and Niall move around the small table like they do this every night, setting cups, plates, and forks on the placemats.

“Placemats,” Harry remarks, when they finally sit down to eat. “Fancy.”

“My mom gave me these,” Niall says, moving his chair closer to Harry’s. “Feel free to tell me if it’s overkill.”

“It’s kind of cute, actually,” Harry responds. He picks up his fork and Niall leans in, his brows raising expectantly. “What?”

“Waiting for you to validate my cooking skills,” Niall says, propping his chin in his palms.

Harry spears a piece of chicken with his fork and lifts it to his mouth. “And if I don’t?”

Niall puts on a pensive expression and says, “If you don’t like my cooking then we can’t date.”

Harry grins and takes a bite, making a show of it. He tries to keep a straight face, but the way Niall is staring makes it difficult. “It’s good,” he says simply, just to get under his skin a bit. To be honest, it’s probably the best thing he’s eaten all year. But, he won’t tell Niall that yet. Teasing him is too fun.

“You’re an asshole,” Niall laughs, settling into his chair.

“Oh,” Harry says, “So you’re allowed to call me an asshole but I’m not allowed to call myself an asshole? I see.”

Niall rolls his eyes and nudges his foot against Harry’s calf under the table. A silence falls over them as they start to eat, and not for the first time, Niall says exactly what Harry is thinking.

“This feels eerily normal,” Niall speaks. “Almost surreal feeling? I can't explain it. I've been trying to get a date out of you for months and we're finally here.”

“Don't think about it too hard,” Harry says. “I’m trying not to.”

“Fine, I won’t,” Niall replies, but keeps his eyes on Harry like there’s a question on the tip of his tongue.

“You’re about to ask me something,” Harry guesses.

“I am,” Niall confirms, with a shy smile.

“I’ll allow it,” Harry tells him, which earns him an even bigger smile.

“I wanted to know what caused you to be so...hmm… _attracted_ to me,” Niall says, bringing his hand up to his mouth to chew his nail.

Harry fakes a frown. “Who says I’m attracted to you?”

“ _Heyyy_.” Niall drops his hand from his face and swats Harry’s arm, his laughter weaving in between his words. “You’re lucky you’re cute, because you are such a pain in my ass.”

Harry keeps it going, loving that Niall looks how Harry’s feels. Smiling wide and cheeks pink. “You just lured me in with dinner and your perfect smile, trying to seduce me.”

“That’s it, I’m kicking you out.” Niall is laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes. He points to the door. “Get out.”

Harry takes his hand and interlocks their fingers, putting their hands on the table. “Okay, okay. I’ll answer your question. What attracted me to you?” He pauses, studying Niall’s face as if he even has to think about it. The second they looked at each other for more than five seconds, he felt the spark. “Well, I’ve only known you for a few months. And besides the fact that you’re fucking gorgeous, the first thing I noticed is that you’re… warm. You’re, like, so open, and generous, and so smart... You’re a good fighter, and humble almost to a fault. You make me laugh harder than anyone I’ve ever met probably-,”

“You know,” Niall cuts in, “a lot of those things are true about you too.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, with no bite behind it.

“I will not.”

“Do you want to hear more good things about you, or should I stop?” Harry asks.

Niall squeezes Harry’s hand, and moves his chair even closer. “No, by all means continue.”

“What I’m about to say isn’t even a joke but, I really like that you wouldn’t leave me alone,” Harry says. Niall’s expression softens, just slightly, and Harry swallows the lump in his throat. “Literally and figuratively, I guess. I could not get you out of my head. I was weirdly bitter and jealous but that didn't change how much I wanted to be around you. And apparently you wanted to be around me too because you just kept popping up. You were there for me when no one else was… I’m just- I’m glad you have such a huge crush on me, I guess.”

Niall drops his smile and frowns, deepening to his voice to speak, “Who says I have a crush on you?”

“I hate you,” Harry responds, his face aching with how hard he’s grinning.

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Niall says, matter-of-factly.

“Don't pretend like you didn't pursue me first,” Harry tells him, pulling Niall’s chair so close that they’re elbow to elbow.

“So?” Niall counters. “You wrote a poem about me.”

“And I’ll write another one too. Just you wait.”   

Harry could write one now, just looking at him- _Something about you,_ he thinks, _something about you and how you touch me- even just a whisper of a touch, your fingers igniting me from the inside out, encapsulates me completely. And when you dare touch your lips to mine, I'm floating through space, weightless, with shooting stars bursting through my chest-_

“I’ve never been someone’s muse before,” Niall says, leaning in to speak against Harry’s lips. He puts a hand on Harry’s thigh, the touch firm enough to get a very clear message across. “Feels nice.”

“If you kiss me right now,” Harry says, letting his eyes close, “I might do something stupid.”

“Yeah, like what?” Niall ghosts his lips over Harry’s, and slides his hand further up.

“Like…,” Harry trails off, letting his mind wander. He indulges in the most ridiculous mental image of picking Niall up, laying him on the table, and ripping his clothes off in a wild, comical way, and laughs out loud. “Something we shouldn’t do yet.”

Niall pulls back, moving his chair to its original position. “Fine,” he smirks. “I’ll wait.”

They sit at the table for a few minutes after they’ve finished eating, sharing a comfortable silence. Then Niall stands up, starting to clear the table. “So,” he says, easily, his eyes focused on the table. “It’s early still.”

“It is,” Harry agrees. He definitely knows where this is heading, and he knows that Niall knows too. Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, his mind instantly begins to spiral into examining every single possible thing that could happen tonight. Despite the fact that he’s down for absolutely whatever, the mere implication that they could end up doing more than kiss makes his fucking head spin.

“If you’re up for it, we can try and find something to watch?” Niall suggests. He looks up, briefly, gauging Harry’s reaction.

“Sounds good,” Harry says, getting to his feet. Instinctively, he moves to help clear the table and Niall smacks his hand away. “Sorry, I forgot.”

After clearing the table, Niall goes to the living room, turns on the TV and sits down on the couch, patting the spot next to him. Harry sits, draping an arm around Niall’s shoulder to pull him closer. Somehow, the desire to have them touching at all times overrides his nerves. Niall grins, scrolling through Netflix suggestions. “You putting the moves on me?”

“If that’s what you wanna call it,” Harry says, sliding his hand down to squeeze Niall’s arm. “I just like being next to you… and it’s kind of like, amazing to know that you feel the same.”

Niall puts the remote down and turns to look at Harry, bringing his hand up to cup Harry’s face. It’s Harry’s favorite thing, he decides. The slightly calloused palm pressing gently against the flesh of his cheek, trading warmth and making his breath hitch in his throat.

“Wanting to be close to you,” Niall starts, his voice soft and eyes bright, “and wanting to touch you, but not being able to was fucking torture. I know it’s sounds insane but it’s like I’ve waited a lifetime for this and now that you’re here, I feel like I have to make up for lost time. There’s this part of me- it’s really small, but it’s there- that’s afraid that if I’m not close to you, or touching you, that you’re just going to disappear in a cloud of smoke or something.”

“Holy shit,” Harry whispers, before presses their lips together sharply. Niall kisses back without hesitation, and between their eager, messy kisses, Harry says, “How did you just... put into words... exactly what I’ve been feeling?”

“Don’t know,” Niall mutters, pressing one last kiss to Harry’s lower lip. “Same wavelength, I guess?”

They lean their heads together for a minute, both of them grinning from ear to ear.

“So what do you want to watch?” Niall asks.

“I literally couldn't care less about TV right now,” Harry laughs, sinking a little into the cushions.  

Niall turns on some Food Network show, claiming it’s his favorite. It’s one where they have to make a dish out of mystery ingredients, and Niall seems thoroughly into it. He commentates it like he’s watching a fight, and Harry watches him more than the TV screen. Eventually, Niall changes position so he’s curled on on the couch and somehow, his head finds its way onto Harry’s lap. Niall looks up at him, asking without words if it’s okay. Harry nods, his fingers brushing the nape of Niall’s neck. He could write essays and epics about the way they fit together, but that’s for another day.

“So I have a kink-,” Niall starts, then pauses, still staring at the TV. Then he turns, looks up at Harry, and grins, rubbing the side of his neck. “Right here, in my neck. Think I did something weird at the gym.”

“You almost gave me a heart attack,” Harry sighs, willing his heart to stop palpitating.

“I know.” Niall wiggles his eyebrows and grins. “Your face was priceless.”

“You make fun of me a lot for someone who claims to like me,” Harry says.

Niall shrugs. “It’s too easy.”

“I _was_ going to offer a massage, but now that you're making fun of me…”

“Don’t be a tease,” Niall says, and sticks his lower lip out in a pout that’s too cute for Harry to handle.

“Fine,” Harry relents, moving over on the couch.

Niall sits up and readjusts his position, basically putting himself between Harry’s outstretched legs. Being close in this way is definitely something he can get used to. Niall leans into Harry’s touch as Harry slides his hands up Niall’s back. A relieved sigh escapes Niall’s lips and he relaxes completely into Harry’s chest. Harry presses his thumbs into the muscles between the shoulder blades, and his fingers into Niall’s shoulders. As he does this, Niall brings his hand down and squeezes Harry's thigh. “Jesus christ, that is so good,” he sighs. “I know you just started, but I might have to stop you before this gets, like, wildly inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” Harry drags his thumbs up the back of Niall’s neck, into the tense muscles. Niall makes a noise that sound suspiciously like a moan, and Harry has to mentally scold himself to keep from getting too turned on. “How so?”

Niall turns and kisses Harry softly, crawling into his lap. “I heard something,” he says, and starts to massage his fingers through Harry’s hair, pressing firmly against his scalp. Then, he slides his fingers down behind Harry’s ears and massages gently beneath his earlobes. Involuntarily, Harry’s eyes close and every ounce of tension in his body fades away. “Apparently we have all these pressure points in our scalp and behind our ears that help us relax.”

Harry hums, suddenly unable to formulate a sentence. “Yeah?”

“I knew you'd like this…,” Niall says, “you're like a cat.”

Harry opens his eyes, just barely, to see the smile playing on Niall’s lips. “Shut up.”

“I have a secret,” Niall says, still working his fingers against Harry’s scalp. He’s giving him that _look_ that makes Harry’s skin tingle. “I asked you to coach me because I wanted to flirt with you.”

“I figured,” Harry admits.

“You figured?” Niall questions. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re not very subtle.”

Niall stops rubbing Harry’s scalp now, and sits back on his thighs. “Oh, shut up.”

“I mean,” Harry says, his lips curling into a smile, “you couldn’t be as clueless as you seemed.”

“Can you blame me?” Niall puts his hands back on Harry’s head, which Harry is eternally grateful for. “You would have done the same.”

“Don't think so,” Harry jibes, “I'm not nearly as desperate.”

Niall stops again, his eyes widened. He looks utterly offended, yet the amused light in his eyes remains. “ _Desperate_?!”

“You were drooling over me,” Harry teases, just to see how far he can take it.

Niall's eyes widen even more, somehow. “ _I_ was drooling over _you_?”

“Yeah, like every time I came around your jaw was on the floor,” Harry says. Before he can gauge Niall’s reaction, Niall digs his fingers into both of Harry’s armpits. Harry jumps, laughter already bubbling up out of him uncontrollably.

“You _are_ ticklish!” Niall affirms, poking and prodding at Harry’s ribs.

“My… achilles… heel,” Harry gets out, through his laughter. Then, with all his strength, he lifts up, and flips them so Niall is on his back. Niall, never easily discouraged, just wraps his legs around Harry’s waist and hooks his ankles together to close the guard.

“Got you,” he says, breathlessly.

Harry traps Niall’s hands between them, to stop any further tickling. “You got _me_?”

“Feels like it.” Niall lifts his head up from the couch cushion and Harry meets him halfway, pressing their lips together gently.

They kiss like they have nowhere else to be, like they could stay on this couch forever and let their hands roam, breathing each other in. Harry lies his head on Niall’s chest, feeling Niall’s erratic heartbeat. Niall smooths his hands up and down Harry’s back, and when Harry’s eyes begin to close again, he mumbles, “I might be too tired to drive home.”

“Is that right?” Niall asks.

Harry hums, feeling Niall's hands on him. “Is the first date too soon to spend the night?”

“You’ve spent the night twice already.”

“Not as your boyfriend,” Harry says, and his heart nearly skips a beat. Boyfriend. When’s the last time he’s wanted to be someones fucking _boyfriend_?

“Who says you’re my boyfriend?”

Harry finally lifts his head and grins at him. “That’s it, I’m leaving.”

Niall squeezes his legs around Harry's waist tighter, holding him in place. “My bed will be lonely without you.”

“You have room for your _not-boyfriend_?”

Niall places a hand on each side of Harry’s head. “I have room for _you_. Whether you’re my boyfriend or my not-boyfriend, I want you in my bed. Next to me.” They kiss again, and Niall ducks his head to leave kisses on Harry’s neck and whisper in his ear. “And if it’s not already clear, I want you to be my boyfriend.”

To be quite honest, Harry could float up out of his body right now and die happy. _I’m yours_ , he thinks _, I’m so happy to be yours._

Niall leaves a kiss to Harry’s jaw. “To bed?”

Harry nods, speechless, and sits up. Niall leads them to the bedroom and shuts the door behind them. For a moment, neither of them move or say anything.

“So,” Niall starts, waving vaguely around the room. “This is where my bed is.”

Harry takes Niall by the wrist and pulls him in, too antsy to be apart. “I really fucking like you, you know.”

Niall wraps both arms around Harry’s waist. “Yeah? I had no idea.”

“God, you’re such a smartass, I love it,” Harry groans, before kissing him again. Right away, Niall opens up Harry’s mouth with his tongue. A warmth settles in the pit of Harry’s stomach, the kind of yearning and sheer want that thrums in his bones and pulses in his blood.

Showing himself to be more dominant than Harry knew, Niall literally shoves Harry back onto the bed and kneels between his legs, grinning the whole time. Harry moves up the bed to make more room, sighing when Niall teases a hand at the waistband of his jeans. Harry allows it for a second, lets the slight tickle of Niall’s fingertips trace the line of hair beneath his navel. When Harry starts to enjoy it a little _too_ much, he catches Niall’s hand and pulls him up to lie against his chest. They lock eyes as Niall’s other hand creeps up beneath Harry’s shirt and drags up his ribcage, arching Harry’s spine. Harry brings a hand up to the small of Niall’s back, as Niall grinds down just slightly. Harry literally whimpers, causing Niall’s eyes to darken before he grinds against him again, harder, moaning when he feels how hard Harry is.

Niall pins Harry’s hand to the headboard, using his other hand to drag his thumb over Harry’s adam’s apple. His rough palm rests against the side of Harry’s neck, his fingers gripping slightly. The touch is light, barely there, but it nearly drives Harry insane. There’s a knowing smile on Niall’s lips, like he’s fully aware that he could literally do anything he wants and Harry would definitely let him. Niall kisses Harry until he's dizzy with it, gently rocking into him. He only lets go of Harry’s neck to grab a fistful of his hair, tugging to expose his neck. He kisses and bites the fragile skin there, making Harry whine and squirm underneath him. Then, he stops, leaving Harry desperate for more.

“As much as I want to have my way with you…,” Niall whispers, his lips wet and kiss swollen. “I don’t think it’s the right time.”

Harry nods, trying to wrap his head around why they would need to stop when it feels this fucking good. “Okay… let's just, like, take our time.”

It takes a while for them to separate completely. For a few minutes, they just lie there and look at each other, their hands clasped together.

“You’re so beautiful, it’s ridiculous,” Niall mutters, propping himself up to look at Harry properly.

“Oh, stop it-,” Harry starts to protest but Niall doesn’t let him. He turns his head to look away but Niall brings him back with a hand on his cheek.

“Seriously. How are you so hot and don't even realize it?”

“Seriously, shut up.” Harry is literally going to combust if Niall doesn’t stop complimenting him. The truth is, Harry usually doesn’t think of himself as good-looking or ugly. He’s just sort of _there_ , so when someone as effortlessly gorgeous as Niall starts to gas him up like this, it’s too much.

Niall brings Harry’s hand to his upper thigh, to feel the unmistakable bulge in his jeans. “Do I have to show you what you do to me?”

Even if Harry had the words to explain how ready he is to be on his knees, with Niall's hand on the back of his head, he doesn't get to say them.

On the nightstand, Niall’s phone rings and interrupts them. Niall glances at it, then back down at Harry.

Harry chuckles, his hand still on Niall's dick. “Gonna get that?”

“It's probably my mom, so I sort of have to.” He sits up and grabs his phone, adjusting the front of his jeans. It makes Harry blush with embarrassment, as if Niall's mom can see them through the phone.

Niall drops the phone between them, and presses the speaker icon. “Hey, you beat me to the punch.”

His mom's voice comes through the speaker, a familiar motherly concern laced through her words. “You didn’t call me when you said, I got a bit worried.”

“Nah, it’s my job to worry. How was your day?”

“Good, nothing new. What are you up to?”

“I’m home…,” Niall says, then adds, quieter, “Harry is here.”

Harry clears his throat and speaks up. “Hello.”

“Ooooh,” she coos, “Am I interrupting?”

Niall hooks his leg over Harry’s, so they're touching. “Maybe a little.”

She giggles, and says, “I’ll leave you to it then. Goodnight, I love you. And goodnight to you too, Harry.”

“I love you too,” Niall sings, before hanging up. He stands up, drops the phone on the nightstand, and kicks off his shoes. “So, before we continue, I gotta go do something. Just wait here, don’t move. I’ll be right back. It’ll only take a second.”

"I wasn't planning on leaving," Harry chuckles, as Niall backs out of the room.  

As promised, Niall is back within seconds. Again, he kneels between Harry's legs and brings both hands to his thighs.

"You were gone for so long," Harry laments, throwing the back of his hand to his forehead. "Thought I would shrivel up and die without your touch."

Niall grins and explains, "I have to check the stove, the oven, and the locks on the front door every night before bed.”

“I get it,” Harry says, reaching for Niall’s hand. “Where were we?”

Niall slides his hand under Harry’s shirt, rucking the material up over his navel. “I was going to talk more about how hot you are.”

Harry rolls his eyes, shivering under Niall’s touch. “You gotta stop.”

“Why?” Niall questions, with his thumb pressed to Harry’s hip. “Feels too good?”

“Because,” Harry says, forcing his voice to come out evenly, “if you're not gonna have your way with me, I don't wanna hear it.”

“I will…,” Niall ducks his head and kisses each of Harry’s hips, then all the way up his belly and chest. “When the time is right.”

Harry groans and hooks his arms under Niall’s, pulling him up they’re chest to chest. “Now you're just teasing.”

“I think you like it.” Niall ghosts his lips over Harry’s jaw. “Feels like you do.”

“Feels like you do too.” Harry’s voice comes out in a sigh, trembling, as he notices how hard they both are.

Niall sits up now, his hand posed over the buttons of Harry’s shirt. “Can I?”

“Yes,” Harry answers, for once not bothered by sounding too eager. “Please.”

Niall takes his time getting Harry undressed, stopping to touch and kiss nearly every visible inch of Harry’s bare skin. From his elbows, down to his fingers, and even his knees. And Harry lets himself be touched, and kissed, trying to remind himself that yes, he deserves this. As he tugs the t-shirt over Niall’s head and pulls the jeans down off his hips, he reminds himself that he’s worthy of this, and that this isn’t a dream. He reminds himself that this isn’t a fluke- that this is more than just some one time thing, and there will be many times after this where they’ll touch, and kiss as they undress, letting minutes pass like time doesn’t exist.

Once they’re both down to their boxers, Harry can’t help but groan at the way Niall’s body looks. The tattoos, the hair on his chest, his abs, his thighs. _Jesus christ, his thighs._

“That is just unfair.”

“What?” Niall asks, feigning innocence. He stretches his arms over his head, knowing exactly how his muscles flex in reaction. “What did I do?”  

“You can't look this fucking good, sleep next to me, and expect me not to lose my mind.”   

Niall laughs and dims the bedside light, then plops down onto the mattress, belly first. “Do you want me to apologize for looking good?”

Harry puts his hand on the curve of Niall’s lower back, tracing the dip in his spine. It’s mesmerizing almost, how perfectly sculpted he is- like someone made him in a fucking factory. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

Niall brushes the hair out of Harry’s eyes, opening his mouth to speak. It’s a full five seconds before anything comes out. “Do you feel okay about everything? Like, with us? I don’t want you to feel like I’m rushing you into anything.”

Harry thinks about it, actually turning the thought over in his head. Are they rushing? Does it matter if they are? Is life too short to worry about labels and formalities? “I know I feel good next to you,” he settles on, shimmying on the mattress to get closer. Niall moves into the embrace, wrapping himself up in Harry’s arms.

Harry hooks his head over Niall’s shoulder, sliding a hand down his back once again. This time he doesn’t stop at the the perfect dip in his spine. “Anyone ever tell you that you have the most perfect ass they've ever seen?”

“That would be a first,” Niall mumbles, into Harry’s neck.

“I don’t believe that at all,” Harry tells him, spreading his hand over the rounded flesh. “Like… a perfect peach.”

Niall leans back, squinting at Harry in the dim light. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Are you trying to seduce _me_?” Harry retorts.

“I can’t help the way I look,” Niall says, in the earnest way he says everything. “I was blessed with this ass.”

Harry laughs, watching the crinkles appear by Niall’s eyes. He searches them, looking for any shred of doubt or hesitation, and finds none. “I just know that when you have to wait for something, it makes you want it more.”

Niall pauses, for about two seconds, before nodding. “Okay, you talked me into it,” he breathes, before crashing their lips together. He’s relentless, sucking Harry’s lower lip into his mouth and pulling it between his teeth. The moan that escapes Harry vibrates through his body as they start to move against each other. Niall grabs hold of Harry’s leg and slides his hand up, and up, until it’s under the tight elastic of his boxers. His hand keeps going until it reaches Harry’s upper thigh, were there are dozens of raised scars from ages ago.

Immediately, Harry pulls away, ready to apologize for his past coping mechanisms.

“Was that okay?” Niall’s brow is furrowed, and there’s concern in his voice. He doesn’t move his hand- he actually smooths his fingers over the scars, like they’re just another part of Harry’s body to touch and explore. “This is okay right?”

“I know you like me,” Harry starts, his mouth drying up as he speaks. “But are you really sure you wanna get into this?”

Niall looks utterly shocked now, his eyes wide. “I can’t believe you’re asking me this when I’m seconds away from having your dick in my hand.”

“That’s fantastic and everything, but I’m actually serious?” Harry stops, not meaning for it to come out as a question. Unfortunately, he’s dead serious. But, since there isn’t much blood getting to his brain at the moment- “I’m a lot to deal with and I probably always will be. So, this is your last chance to back out.”

Niall blinks, his gaze unwavering. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you’re stuck with me, and all my bullshit.”

Niall lets go of Harry’s leg and grips Harry’s face with one hand, his fingers and thumb pressing into the cheeks. “Listen to me, because I’m only going to tell you this one more time. I like you. You’re good enough for me. Shit, you’re damn near perfect for me. Even when you don’t think you deserve it, I- care about you. And, I want you. I want all of you.”

“All of me?” Harry asks, because he might be trying to get better but that insecure part of him will always be present.

In lieu of an answer, Niall slots himself between Harry’s legs and kisses him softer now, sliding one hand behind Harry's neck to cradle his head. He smooths a hand up Harry's thigh again, hiking up his leg to make more room. His hand keeps going, up the leg of his boxers to cup his ass now.

“Not much back there to grab,” Harry sighs, between Niall’s delicate kisses.

Niall shushes him and squeezes Harry’s ass harder, as if to make a point. “Everything about you is beautiful.” He peppers kisses along Harry’s jaw, along the column of his throat, and down to his collarbones. Harry suddenly remembers to move, sliding his hands down Niall’s back, and under the waistband of his boxers. Niall presses himself closer and rolls his hips, drawing out a moan from Harry. Niall moans in response, louder, pulling his fingers through Harry’s hair. The fingers on his other hand tug down the waistband of Harry’s boxers. Harry doesn’t hesitate to lift his hips to help Niall pull them off completely.

Once they’re off, Niall sits back on his heels and looks down. “Oh.”

“What?” Harry asks, his first instinct to bring his hands down to cover himself. Niall doesn’t answer, so Harry asks again. “ _What_?”

Niall licks his lips. “...I’m trying to figure out how to say ‘wow your dick is huge,’ but, like, in a romantic way.”

Harry starts to laugh, which makes Niall laugh too. The absurdity of the situation- Harry, completely naked and laughing so hard his stomach hurts- relaxes him a little. Niall leans down to kiss him quick, then sits up to wiggle out of his boxers too, eager to press their bodies together again. With one hand on either side of Harry’s head, he brings their lips together and coaxes Harry’s lips open with his tongue. He’s hard against the crease of Harry’s thigh, and Harry practically tremors with anticipation. But he could wait forever, maybe, if Niall keeps kissing him the way he is now, consuming him like he’s the most delicious thing ever tasted. Harry drags his blunt nails up Niall’s back, then places his fingers in Niall’s hair. Grabbing a fistful of Niall’s hair, he pulls, gently, just to test the waters. Niall gasps, then whimpers, which definitely goes straight to Harry’s dick. Harry does it again, harder, which separates their lips and Niall moans loud enough that it echoes off the walls in the room. And for a millisecond, Harry thinks, “ _Oh no_ ,” because if they’re _both_ like this, they’ll never leave the bed.

“Again, babe,” Niall says, literally panting. Harry does as he’s told, trying his absolute best not to fixate on the new name. Really, he’ll do literally anything to hear it over and over again, in this same raspy voice. Niall reaches between them and palms Harry’s dick, starting his movements slow and steady. Harry moves into the touch, bucking his hips into Niall’s hand.

“Oh my god,” Harry whispers against Niall’s lips. It’s been so long since he’s been this close to someone, but he’s never, ever been touched like this before. Niall is leaking in his hand when Harry finally reaches down to touch him too. His lips part, his eyes flutter closed, and he drops his head against Harry’s shoulder, letting his teeth graze the skin there.

Clumsily, Harry wraps his hand around both their dicks, and right away Niall thrusts into Harry’s fist. The way they slide together is obscene and Harry never wants it to end. Niall’s mouth is wet on Harry’s shoulder as he speaks. “God, I love your hands.”

Harry cups Niall’s face, and lifts his head up to look at him, dragging a thumb over his lower lip. His pupils are dilated, his face is red, and there are beads of sweat at his hairline already. “Yeah?”

To answer, Niall parts his lips and sucks Harry’s thumb into his mouth, then turns his head to catch the index and middle finger too.

“Oh my god, holy shit.” The sight of his fingers stretching and pressing into Niall’s mouth sort of leaves him in awe. It’s enough to push him right to the edge. Sliding his thumb over the head of Niall’s dick, and letting Niall moan around his fingers is what does it. He takes his fingers out of Niall’s mouth, and brings their lips together in a messy kiss as he comes apart between them. Niall falls apart soon after, panting Harry’s name over and over until he drops his head and bites down hard on Harry’s shoulder.

Disgustingly, they stay together for a while before getting up to clean the mess. Despite that, Harry can’t get the smile off his face. Still naked, they climb back into the bed and pull the sheet over their bodies. Niall rests his head on Harry’s sweaty chest, ducking his head under the sheet.

“I'm still thinking about what you said, after my fight,” Niall mumbles, into Harry’s sternum. His voice vibrates through Harry’s chest. “How you said you think we would have found each other somehow, even if we weren’t fighters. It scared me, because it was exactly what I was thinking. I thought it would be weird to say, but I’m so glad you said it first. I’m so glad we found each other. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Noticing the tremble in Niall’s voice, Harry lifts the sheet off his head. “...are you about to cry?”

Niall smiles and wipes his eyes. “I get weepy after sex sometimes. Sue me.”

“Come here.” Harry opens his arms, urging Niall to crawl up so they’re face to face. Looking into his eyes never gets old and probably never will. “I’m glad I found you,” he tells him. “...that’s all I can really say. I’m just so happy you’re here.”

For hours, they kiss and talk, their voices low in the dark. They’re still sharing sleepy kisses and laughing deliriously at each others stupid jokes when the sun comes up, peeking in through the blinds.

Something inside Harry shifts. As he closes his eyes, he feels more centered than he has in his entire life.

-..-

Harry opens up the balcony door and steps outside, faced with the view of the rising sun over the horizon. The scent of ocean air, salt, and sand surrounds him. There’s nothing but the sound of a few birds flying overhead and the nearly inaudible swish of the water. Everything else is silent.

He takes a seat in the lounge chair, opens up his journal and writes the date. Looking at an empty page still intimidates Harry, no matter how much he writes. The past month has been a vignette of him opening and closing his journal during the day, and then waking up in the middle of the night or at some ungodly hour in the morning to write when an idea finally strikes.

Being the loving, positive, and supportive partner he is, Niall convinced Harry to write a book of poetry. Harry's first instinct was to argue, because who in their right mind would want to pay money for his useless ramblings? Niall didn’t fight it, but he did start strategically leaving Harry’s journal out by the bed and asking Harry to read him something every morning. And how could Harry resist Niall’s sleepy morning voice, humming about how he could listen to Harry talk ‘ _forever and ever?_ ’ Slowly, it became a habit for him to write something every night and read it to Niall every morning, even if he hated it. After writing a few things that turned out half decent, Harry realized it's less about pleasing everyone else and more about accomplishing something for himself. In his current state of mind, filling up pages with all of his thoughts and ideas is more rewarding and gratifying than fighting ever has been.

Deciding to take a break from MMA wasn’t a difficult choice. No tireless training, no worrying about being perfect or worth something to the company, the industry, and the fans. When he decided to take the break, he wasn’t sure how long it would be. As of now, it’s still indefinite. It's refreshing to not have any responsibilities, and to have time to sort through all the shit in his head. It’s undeniable that fighting has helped him through a lot of things in his life, so he can’t leave it behind forever. But, he’s fine with hitting the pause button and coming back when he’s ready, whenever that may be. After some thinking (and more convincing from Niall), he realized the only logical move is to make his return at 170- all new opponents, no shitty weight cut, new title opportunities. Starting over doesn't always have to stem from running away.

Filling his time with writing has been useful, especially without the gym or alcohol as a vice. Now, when he can’t sleep, or when he’s restless, angry, or _off-kilter_ , he turns to his journal. Writing intentionally is new to him, but it’s healthier than binge drinking and isolating himself. Instead, he’ll open the book and write about the first thing that comes to mind.

Looking out over the balcony, just one floor down, Harry sees the clean sand. He sees the ocean, with its gentle tide, and waves breaking on the shore. The sky is still semi dark, with deep blues fading into baby blues and orange hues.

He's always loved the ocean. Somehow, he let himself forget it, while he was caught in the middle of himself and all his afflictions. After everything happened last year, he stopped taking real time for himself. Every ounce of his energy was reserved for surviving, with none left to enjoy anything thoroughly. Being here now feels monumental, after spending so much time in bars, at the gym, or alone in his room.  

Nothing comes to him, as he stares out at the ocean. He writes down the word yellow, scratches it out, and writes the word 'bright.' Then, he draws a blank. He glances inside, where Niall is still asleep, curled up on one side of the bed to leave space for Harry to come back. Harry is almost tempted, though he doesn't want to wake Niall up at the asscrack of dawn on his birthday.

They're on 'vacation.' It was actually Harry's idea for them to leave the desert for a while, and spend time alone together before Niall starts his training camp next week. They've spent the last few days eating too much, not sleeping enough, and washing sand out of each others hair.

Niall has been Harry's rock for the past month, especially after his last therapy session. Harry is fully expecting a Bipolar 2 diagnosis- it's what his last therapist mentioned before Harry fucked off to Mojave. So, discussing it again isn't surprising, but the label is daunting. With that on the horizon, and all the stigma that comes with it, Harry has to deliberately work to start realizing he’s not an inherently shitty person. He’s just a person with a mental illness- someone who will probably have to take an antidepressant and a mood stabilizer and goes to therapy for the rest of his life, like millions of others.

With Niall around, helping Harry meditate and sleeping by his side, things have been easier.

Leaving his journal on the balcony, Harry goes inside and crawls back into bed. Niall reaches for him immediately, his eyes still closed.

Harry presses a kiss to his forehead, and then to his nose, before wrapping his arms around Niall’s waist to pull him in. “Happy birthday.”

There’s a smile on Niall’s lips as he pulls Harry closer, into his chest.

Harry sighs into it, listening to Niall’s heartbeat. “What do you want to do today?”

Niall runs his fingers through Harry’s hair and hums, “This.”  

Harry exhales against his chest, and lifts his head up to look at Niall’s face. Soft light seeps in through the glass door, bathing his skin. Warmth radiates off of him- his cheeks redden, and his tired eyes shine as a sun beam moves across his face. Harry drinks it in, all of him, from the crinkles by his eyes, the freckles on his nose, and pink lips, all the way down to his narrow hips and bare legs.

 _Open_ , Harry thinks, _I'm cut open and it's raw and new, tickling deliciously against each nerve ending like the birth of new stars, reflecting your light…_

 _It's bright_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end. thanks for reading. please feel free to dissect and discuss and send me a million comments.  
> here are some songs I listened to while I was writing this:
> 
> Meet Me In The Hallway- Harry Styles  
> Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes- Fall Out Boy  
> Simple Math- Manchester Orchestra  
> First Day of My Life- Bright Eyes  
> A Walk Through Hell- Say Anything  
> Headup- Deftones (this is Harry's walk out song)  
> Born In The USA- Bruce Springsteen (this is Niall's walk out song)  
> Fade Into You- Mazzy Star (this is the song I imagined playing as they talked outside of the bar that first time!)  
> I Knew I Loved You- Savage Garden (whew boy what a song)


End file.
